


The Memories of the West

by TiesThatBind1899



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Age Difference, Angst, Angst and Romance, Arranged Marriage, Arthur doesn't die, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family Dynamics, First Kiss, Firsts, Forced Marriage, Journey, Kind of a fix-it fic?, Kinda, Language, Lost - Freeform, Neutral Honor, New Epilogue, Older Man/Younger Woman, Protective Arthur, Redemption, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious overtones, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slow Moving, at first anyway, lots of them - Freeform, no TB, other characters added as we go, wandering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:58:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 75,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19205182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiesThatBind1899/pseuds/TiesThatBind1899
Summary: A story about the road west.  Or just the memories of it and those who walked it.Or--a story in which Arthur does not get TB and die.





	1. 40 Years

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> So this is my attempt at a story revolving around Arthur's redemption... in which he doesn't die. Basically, everything happened as it happened in-game except for Arthur's TB and passing. The year is 1904. All the other gang members' fates will become known as the story progresses. :) 
> 
> For warnings, there will definitely be violence, language, sexual content most likely, and there's a pretty big age-gap between Arthur and his love interest (she's legal age, though). If you have any concerns, feel free to message me.
> 
> So enjoy! (Please excuse any grammatical errors!)

**PART I**

**1904**

* * *

 

They said you could find anything you wanted on the road west, even God Hisself, and if you couldn’t, then you just hadn’t gone far enough.

She had walked a lot of country by that summer, though, and she hadn’t found God yet--just the devil and everything else besides.

They’d gone through mountains and sweetgrass, through flatlands and fields, and now they were in the desert, wandering like Moses and his people.

That’s where her father died and her brother, too, both taken by fever.

They’d started the journey with seven.

Now, there were only five.  A mother and four children to tend, all on her own.

When the man on the horse rode up, they all stared.  Not at him but the animal. What a beauty it was. Constance did not know horses very well but she knew enough to see this one was a prize.

“You folks okay?” the man asked.

Perhaps it was the horse.  Perhaps it was the question, the inflection of kindness.

But her mother went to him.  She reached up, grabbed his hand and said, “No.”

He dismounted and walked them, and his horse, off the road and into the brush.  Towards a cave in the side of a dusty brown mountain. It was their desperation that allowed them to follow him so easily.  Constance’s younger sisters and brother trailed behind her like featherless ducklings, starved and sunburned.

The man said, “Got a camp here.  It’s shady. Got some food, too, you can have.”

“May God bless you for your kindness,” said her mother.

The man chuckled at this.  Constance had not yet seen his face, as it was covered by the brim of a dark hat.  Covered by shadow. But she could see he was big. Tall and broad shouldered. She wanted to stand in the cool line of shade he cast.  “I don’t think God takes too kindly to men like me, ma’am.”

“Oh, that isn’t true.  He rewards those who are generous.”

“Some generosity don’t cancel out a lifetime of sin.  Least, that’s the way I reckon it works.”

Constance paused now, her youngest brother, Gideon, running into her rear.

They were nearly at the cave.  She could see its black and yawning hole in the side of the cliff.  And there was that big man, whose face she couldn’t see. Who had no favor with God.

“Mother?” she asked.

Her mother paused, turned to look at her.  

“What is it, Constance?”

She hesitated.  The man’s face was still shadowed beneath his hat, but he was looking at her.  She felt his gaze like sand brushing against her in a breeze. “I don’t believe we should stay very long.  Uncle Norman is expecting us soon.”

Her mother frowned, and Constance hoped that she would not give the lie away.  Her mother’s mind was weighed heavy with pain and sun-sickness, and Constance did not have high hopes.

But then, like a miracle, her mother nodded.  “Yes, we will only stay a moment.”

They went to the cave.

At the mouth, there were logs for a fire.  A sleeping pack lay next to it. A lantern, cans of food, a skinned rabbit.

All of their stomachs seemed to roar in unison.

“Help yourself to whatever you see,” said the man.

Her siblings poured from around her like water, descending upon the treasures, but her mother halted them with a sharp bark.

“Don’t be unruly,” she said.  She grabbed a can of beans, scooped a spoonful for each of them.  “Try this first. You’ll be sick if you eat a lot at once.”

They obeyed, begrudgingly.

Constance’s eyes drifted towards the man.  He took his hat off to wipe sweat with the back of his arm.  There was enough light coming in to see his hair was light brown, fine and a bit long.  Perhaps once it was very fair but time had dulled it to the color of aged wheat.

He looked up and his eyes were so blue that it shocked her into some strange new feeling and she quickly averted her gaze.

“Thank you, again,” her mother said.  She was sitting near the children, feeding them careful bites.  

“Ain’t nothin’, ma’am.”  The sound of his voice seemed to rumble in the cave.  Constance wondered how deep it went.

“It is.  It is something.  You’re the first man who’s shown us any kindness in the past few weeks.”  Her mother pushed a few strands of hair out of her face only to be interrupted by Gideon tugging on her arm for more food.  “My name is Lorena. This is my boy, Gideon. Grace and Faith are my younger girls here. My eldest is Constance.”

Constance felt the man looking at her again.  She felt the creep of blood rushing up her neck, the side of her face, where his eyes had settled.

“It’s a pleasure,” said the man.

“Will you tell us your name?” her mother asked.

His hesitation worried Constance but finally, he said, “Arthur.  Arthur Callahan.”

“Well, you are a good man, Mr. Callahan.”

Again, he laughed, but it had no joy.  “I ain’t sure ‘bout that.”

Gideon suddenly gagged, a horrid, retching sound, and a spill of beans and water came running from his mouth, into his lap.

This was almost more than Mother could bear.  Constance saw the strain, the pain of the last few weeks, months.  She saw it all in her mother’s watery eyes, and Constance quickly stepped forward before her mother’s mind could snap, maybe get lost in the break.

“I’ll clean him,” said Constance.

“There’s a river nearby.  I can take you,” Mr. Callahan said.

“That’s quite all right.  You’ve troubled yourself enough.  Just point me in the right direction.”  Constance grabbed beneath Gideon’s arms, lifted him.  His weight was slight and boneless.

“It’s ‘bout a half mile out.  West from here.”

Everything in her life seemed to be west from where she’d been standing.

 

* * *

 

Constance didn’t like leaving her mother and the girls, but she knew Mother had Father’s gun and that did give her some comfort.

“I’m hot,” said Gideon.

“I know.  So am I.”

“Are we almost there?”

“I think so.”  Constance shifted him on her hip.  She was covered in his filth now, too, but it hardly seemed to matter.  She imagined this river. She let herself think the water would be cool, like the mountain springs back home.  She let herself imagine she’d dive in and sink to the bottom and settle there and be washed smooth and shiny like a stone with the rush of the current.

In reality, the river was still.  A rippleless blue snake curling through dry land, carving a groove for itself.  The water was not cool at all, but hot. Just as everything else in this desert was.

Gideon seemed revived by it.  He splashed and washed himself clean, until he almost resembled a boy again.

Constance went about her own washing with care and scaredness.  She was very gentle with her dress, which was so threadbare it could fall apart at the seams from the slightest scrub.

When they were done, they walked back and let the air dry them.  They were not even damp by the time they reached the cave.

Inside, the girls were sleeping and Mother was finally eating.  Small careful bites of meat.

Constance looked for the man, but he was not there.

“Where is he?” she asked.

Her mother’s eyes were drooping, her chewing slow.  “He said he had to go catch another rabbit. For our dinner.”

“We’re staying for dinner?”

Gideon pulled out of Constance’s hand, ran to their mother.  He launched himself in her lap, snuggled down despite the heat.

“I thought we might,” her mother said.

“We don’t know this man.”

“He’s been very kind.”

“And don’t you wonder why that is?”

Her mother shifted Gideon in her lap, blinking fast.  “What choice do we have.”

Constance glanced over at the girls.  They were still, sleeping soundly, their dark hair tangled together.  The shady rock must have felt cool against their skin.

Constance said, “I suppose none.”

The man did not come back with a rabbit but a pronghorn.  It was a massive beast, slung over his shoulder and dripping blood from an empty eye-socket.  When Arthur dropped it to the ground, Gideon woke, fluttering with excitement. He eventually couldn’t contain himself and shook his younger sisters awake, too, and the three of them sat, dark-headed doorsteps, watching as Mr. Callahan unsheathed a hunting knife.

“We can help you skin it, if you like,” Mother said.

“No need, ma’am.  I can manage.” And he made short work of it, slicing away at the pronghorn hide.  Aggressive, efficient.

Constance knew Gideon would be impressed, and he was, inching closer and closer, watching on in amazement.  

“How’d you catch one of those?  They’re fast.”

Mr. Callahan paused in his cutting for a moment, wiped sweat from his brow and left just a little streak of blood behind.  “If you stay downwind of ‘em you can usually get close enough to get a shot in. Gotta get ‘em in the eye or the heart or somethin’ real important, though.  Otherwise, they’ll spook and you gotta chase ‘em down.”

“Did you kill this one with one shot?”

Mr. Callahan just nodded as he went back to work.

“With a gun?”

“A bow, actually.”

“Wow.”  The word was exhaled quietly beneath Gideon’s breath.  “My father had a gun. Now my mother has it. But he didn’t have a bow.  And I never saw him use the gun much, unless it was to shoot squirrels. But he was not a very good shot at all.”

“What happened to him--your pa?”

“He died,” said Gideon.

“On the trail,” Mother added, her voice very quiet.

Constance looked to Faith and Grace, but they were sitting further out now, away from the gore of the pronghorn, talking amongst themselves.  In their own world, connected and enclosed. They had a kind of magic, the twins, a real magic--speaking to each other with only their eyes and hands, reaching out to feel the other’s pain when separated.  

It was not the same magic Constance had.  The same magic her father said she had.

She envious of the twins and their silent, understanding ways.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Callahan.  Constance looked back to him, found his eyes dipping away from hers.  “If you don’t mind me askin’, why you folks out on the trails? I mean, where are you headed?”

“My husband was a minister,” said Mother.  “He was called to preach in a settlement in Arizona.  We couldn’t afford train passage for us and all our children, so we decided to go by wagon.  A bit old fashioned, now, I suppose. But… it seemed an adventure, at the time.”

Outside, the sky was turning gold and pink.  The heat was edging away, as was the sun, and the night sounds began.

Inside the cave, there was only the saw of Mr. Callahan’s knife and the crackle of fire.  The rustling sound of many breaths being taken at different times.

“That’s bad business,” said Mr. Callahan.  “I’m real sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault.  You’ve been a true blessing.  We got… lost a few days after my husband passed.  Someone stole our wagon, our things. We are… well, we are in a sorry state.  But we would be much worse off, had it not been for you.”

Mr. Callahan brushed past the compliments as if they were cobwebs.  He settled back on his heels, in a crouch by the half-chopped pronghorn.  “You got family near, right? That uncle? Where’s he at? I can point you in the right direction.”

Mother’s eyes flickered over to Constance then back to Mr. Callahan.  “I’m… well, that won’t be necessary. If you can just point us to the direction of the closest town… perhaps there we can drum up the money needed for train passage to my uncle.”

“He can’t send for you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well.”  Mr. Callahan scratched at his jaw, forgetting the state of his hands.  He left a smear of blood in the beginnings of his beard. “Tumbleweed’s the closest town to here but I wouldn’t recommend it.  Ain’t nothin’ hardly there since the railroad passed ‘em by. Armadillo is the closest town after that. But it ain’t much, neither.  Been hit by lots of sickness. Just got over a bout of scarlet fever that nearly killed everyone there.”

“That’s horrible.”  Mother’s hand went to the cross around her neck, a reflex she wasn’t aware of.  “Is there… well, is there anyone left?”

“Oh, yeah.  Bunch of drunkards and fools.  Maybe a few good people. I ain’t sure there’s a lot of work ‘round there, though.  Least… least not the type a good woman like you’d want, if you get my meanin’.”

Mother turned pink, as if she’d been held too close to the fire.  “Oh. I see.”

“Could be somethin’ though.  At least they got the rail station.  I’d be happy to take you folks to it.  It’s a few days out.”

“We don’t want to impose any more than--”

“I was plannin’ on headin’ into Armadillo soon, anyway.”

“Is that where you reside?”

Mr. Callahan went back to his cutting.  “Don’t really reside anywhere, ma’am.”

 

* * *

 

With their bellies full for the first time in weeks, they fell asleep, one-by-one, all huddled around the fire to fight off the desert chill.

In her dreams, she saw strange things.  Things she would not be able to recall when she woke but would haunt her into the day.  Things that would keep an uneasy feeling hovering in the back of her mind.

She did wake once, in the night, quite suddenly.

Her eyes opened to the sight of him.  

He was sitting on the other side of the fire, awake.  Writing in a book. His hat was off, and the flames made his face golden and sharp in places, soft in others.

He glanced up when he felt her stare.

Was she still dreaming?  Perhaps that is why she didn’t look away, shy and caught.  She shifted her head on her arm as Gideon snuggled closer to her in his sleep, and all the while, she kept looking at Mr. Callahan.

And he kept looking back.

When she fell back to sleep, she dreamed of pronghorn and open plains.  This she remembered.


	2. Devil's Lantern

The next morning came and found them walking again. But this time, they walked with a horse and a man with guns and with no father. This time, they walked east.

Mr. Callahan had woke before any of them and packed the camp. The children had stirred excitedly, revived by food and sleep and a firm direction in which to travel.

“You kids know how to ride a horse?” Mr. Callahan had asked them.

Gideon answered no for them all as the girls had grown shy and hid and giggled behind their hands.

“All right if I teach ‘em?” This Mr. Callahan had asked of Constance’s mother.

She’d nodded quickly. “Of course.”

So Mr. Callahan had picked them up, one by one, and settled them in the saddle. They were all three small enough to fit, and they formed a little chain--Gideon holding on to the horn of the saddle, Grace holding on to Gideon, Faith holding on to Grace.

Mr. Callahan had told them where to put their feet, what to do, and they took his instruction dutifully. Then he’d grabbed the reins and led the horse, and the rest of them, away from the cave.

The day was hot and wavering, the horizon nothing but hazy lines. The sun reflected off the sand, disorienting, but Mr. Callahan seemed to know his way.

Constance walked behind them all and worried over the children. They were very high up on that horse. She worried, still, over Mr. Callahan, too. He looked big beside her mother, who walked near him. He had all those guns--two on his hips and a rifle across his back.

Her mother must have noticed, too. She asked him, as they all moved slow through the desert, “What is it you do, Mr. Callahan? Besides rescue poor starving families from the desert.”

Mr. Callahan had his hat on again, and Constance noticed he often hid behind it. He dipped his head, then, as her mother’s question floated over to him. “Bounty huntin’, mostly, ma’am.”

“I imagine that’s dangerous work.”

“Ah, it ain’t so bad.”

“Have you caught anyone real famous?” asked Gideon, leaning dangerously in the saddle.

Mr. Callahan noticed the boy tipping and quickly reached up to push him back in his proper spot. “Not really. Petty thieves, mostly.”

“You ever shot anyone?”

“Gideon Joseph.” Mother would have smacked him, had she been able to reach him on the horse.

Mr. Callahan only chuckled, rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s all right,” he said but he did not answer Gideon’s question.

 

* * *

 

They walked until the children grew tired and sore and more sunburned still.

Mr. Callahan helped them down and said, “We should prolly go into Tumbleweed. Get your kids some hats for the rest of the journey. Get some supplies, too.”

“How far is it?” Mother asked.

“It’s kind of on the way,” said Mr. Callahan. He scratched at his jaw, squinted up at the sky. “I reckon we’re only a day’s ride from it.”

Mother glanced over at the children. They sat beneath the sparse shade of a mesquite tree, looking red and miserable.

“All right,” said Mother. “If you think that’s best.” She went to the kids, fussed over them.

Constance felt Mr. Callahan’s eyes resting on her. When she looked at him, he offered her his canteen.

“I’m all right, thank you,” she said.

“You ain’t had nothin’ to drink in a while. Take it. You’ll get sick otherwise.”

“I don’t think--”

“Don’t be stubborn, girl. Just take it.” He shoved the canteen at her.

She took it and he stared her down, beneath the brim of his hat, until she acquiesced. Hot water had never tasted so sweet. The moment it hit her tongue, she was hungry for it. She wanted to overturn the canteen, let the water soak her hair and run down her spine.

“There you go,” he said, nodding. Then he resettled his hat and squinted at her family, still huddled beneath the mesquite tree. “You folks have had a hard go of it.”

“We aren’t unique in that.”

“Guess not.”

She handed him back the canteen, and he looked at her, motioned towards her forehead.

“Those fellers who robbed you do that?” he asked.

Her hand went up, touched at the scabby strip along her hairline, the place he was eyeing. It wasn’t sore anymore. When it’d happened, it had bled and bled, red running into her eyes. The children had been frightened. She had been, too.

“No,” she said. “I just fell. I’m a bit clumsy sometimes.”

Mr. Callahan looked at her, nodding like he didn’t believe a word of it. He took a swig from the canteen, wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “That so?”

“That’s so,” she said.

He laughed again and looked away. “Ain’t gotta get so defensive, girl. Just makin’ conversation.”

She didn’t believe him. His eyes were sharp beneath that hat.

“What’d those fellers look like--who robbed you?” he asked, grabbing his belt.

Constance glanced back to her family. She thought of the girls, who as babies cried all the time. Who said monsters were beneath their beds. Who said ghost-ladies stood in the corners of their room and came out of paintings to whisper at them. The twins were terrified, then, of everything.

Now, they’d seen real monsters. Real cruelty and real sadness.

“They were dirty,” said Constance, looking back to Mr. Callahan. “A mix of men. One of them had a scar along his cheek, like someone had… had cut his mouth open, nearly to his ear. His teeth were rotted.”

Mr. Callahan scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “Sounds like Bolivar Romero. He runs with the Del Lobos.”

“Does he have a bounty?”

“Fairly large one.” Mr. Callahan was looking distant, still scratching idly at his jaw. “How far away did all this happen? In which direction?”

“I’m not certain. I know we were near some abandoned looking farm.”

“Could be Solomon’s Folly.” Mr. Callahan seemed to ruminate on this moment. He fumbled around in his satchel, pulled out that little brown book she’d seen him writing in before. He scribbled something hastily, put it back, found himself a pack of cigarettes.

He offered her one.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Oh, no, course not.” He smiled a little, struck a match on the bottom of his boot.

“Are you going to go after those men?” She had to shield her eyes from the sun, now, as it crawled directly overhead.

“Maybe. I ain’t decided yet.” He lit his cigarette, shook out the match. Looked at her. “You want me to?”

This startled her. “Me?”

He nodded, still looking at her. He smoked, blowing clouds over her shoulder.

“There were a lot of men,” she said. “Six or seven. I don’t think it would be wise for you to go after them, all on your own.”

With the cigarette between his lips, his words came out a bit muffled. “I been against worse odds.”

She thought this was most likely true. She’d noticed the patch of scarring on his chin, where his beard didn’t quite grow in. She’d seen the scratches against his nose. The rest of him was covered up, hidden from the sun, but she got the sense there were more scars, all over. Like seeing the tip of an iceberg and knowing there was more beneath.

“Why are you helping us?” she asked because she had wanted to for so long and only just now got up the courage.

She thought he’d give a vaguely altruistic answer-- _it seemed the right thing to do_  or something similar.

But instead, he shrugged his big shoulders. “I ain’t sure,” is what he said.

 

* * *

 

They lingered until Mr. Callahan said it was best just to make camp there for the night.

“The rattlesnakes will be comin’ out,” he said, which Constance thought might be more to scare the girls and excite Gideon than anything.

They were close enough to the river to hear its roar, and the sound tempted Mother and the girls for a wash. Gideon stayed near the fire and fell asleep, his legs jerking, no doubt dreaming of horses and rattlers.

Mr. Callahan was quiet, scratching his pencil in that book again. He didn’t sit too near the fire. He kept his back against a rock and looked up occasionally, scanned the evening land around them, then looked back at his book.

She felt comforted by this, his watchfulness. She told herself to settle and relax, but she couldn’t quite manage it seemed. Sometimes, when he looked up, he looked at her, too, and this made her feel less comforted. More restless.

So she got up and wandered outside the circle of firelight.

He noticed, of course. “Don’t stray too far.”

“Or the rattlesnakes will get me?” she asked.

He was looking down at his book, his hat still in place, but she still could see the slow curve of his smile.

She listened to him, though. She only went far enough to feel lonely.

The land was purple with twilight. The moon had appeared, hazy and full, and tonight, when the sky finally cooled to black, it would shine bright and look yellow-gold.

At night and at dawn was when she felt farthest from home. The air here was so clear when the dust settled. The sky was close, the stars so bright they could sting your eyes. Sunsets and sunrises in Pennsylvania were misty, foggy with moisture and greenery. They were warm and hidden by trees, big hills.

Here, it was cold.

It felt unforgiving--this land. Yet there were things that lived here--cacti, rabbits, birds, mesquite. Even flowers.

She crouched by some low-growing plant and watched its blooms unfold in the night. The petals were white, delicate and paper-thin, but she knew it was hardy. It had to be. This was not a place that held delicacy dear.

“That’s dune evenin’ primrose.”

She jumped and twisted to catch Mr. Callahan’s smile.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said but that smile still lingered a little.

She turned back to the flower, her heart thudding. “I’m sure.”

He crouched beside her, watching the flower, too. “It blooms all night, closes back up in the light of dawn. Some folks call it the devil’s lantern.”

“Seems a strange name for something so pretty.”

“Guess some think it’s unnatural--bloomin’ at night like it does.”

“I think it’s interesting.”

Mr. Callahan was watching her, now. She felt his gaze. He just hummed.

“Are you interested in botany?” she asked.

“In what?”

She felt herself smile, just a little. “Botany. The study of plants.”

He shrugged. “I reckon as much as the next feller. I like knowin’ what’ll kill you and what won’t.”

“Will this? Kill you, I mean.”

“Nah. It’s harmless.” He rested his elbows on his knees, kept on looking at her. “Your momma and the girls came back from the water. They’re wonderin’ where you are.”

She nodded and got to her feet. He stood with her, his hands on his belt again. There was a pause between them she didn’t fully understand. An urge within her to say more, to stretch the moment. But she couldn’t find the words. She just looked at him, and he looked back, until he kind of exhaled a laugh and looked away. It was a little shy.

“Let’s get back,” he said.

“All right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :) Let me know if you have any questions or concerns! I hope to update at least once a week!


	3. Rattlesnakes Unfolding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that I wanted this Arthur to be kind of Neutral Honor. As the story progresses, he'll turn more High Honor. Also, I tried my best to keep true to the in-game map, but I have shifted some things around. :) Also, please excuse any grammatical errors. I'm sure they're everywhere. I love writing but can't spell or remember grammar rules to save my life.

That night, she dreamt of cactus spines and falling, and the next morning, they were traveling once more.

It did not take them long to come upon Tumbleweed.  They walked up a hill that made Constance sweat and pant, and then, she saw a mansion.  A mansion and the town it overlooked.

“Who lives in that big house?” asked Gideon, leaning forward on the horse and tipping once more.

Mr. Callahan righted him like a reflex.  “I ain’t sure. Heard it’s haunted, though.”

“Really?” asked Grace, her voice small.

“Ah, it’s prolly just a tall tale,” said Mr. Callahan.  His voice was very comforting, when he wanted it to be. “Don’t you worry none.”

The town was dusty, a crisscross of rickety buildings.  Only a few people milled around in the heat, moving slow, sending little looks towards Constance and Mr. Callahan and the rest.

“They ain’t all too friendly ‘round here,” said Mr. Callahan.  “But the lady who runs the general store is nice enough.”

“A woman runs it?” Constance asked.  It was the first time she’d spoken all day, and her throat was just a little scratchy.

Mr. Callahan led the horse to a hitching post, tied it up.  He helped the children down. “Yeah. Her husband died a few years back so she took over.  Tough as nails, she is.”

The girls dusted their skirts and glowed at having been picked up.  They huddled around Mother, and Gideon darted into the store, leaving the rest to follow.

The place was cloudy with dust and heat, the floorboards creaking.  There was not much on the shelves--beat up cans of food, old candy, busted sacks of flour--but despite the gloom, the woman behind the counter was smiling, kind lines cracking around her eyes.

“Mr. Callahan!” she said.

“Mrs. Chambers,” he said.

“Been a while since I see you. The sheriff’ll be pleased. Got some more bounties for you to pick up.”

“I ain’t really here on business, ma’am.  But I’ll give it a look.”

“I didn’t know you had a family,” said Mrs. Chambers, looking over the children.  They were nearly vibrating with excitement, being in a store for the first time in weeks.  Constance knew the candy, as old as it seemed, must look mighty good to them.

“Oh, they ain’t mine.  Just some folks I met on the road.”  Mr. Callahan was looking over the shelves carefully.

“Oh.  Well. It’s nice to meet you all,” said Mrs. Chambers.

“And you,” said Mother.  “We’re in the market for some hats.”

Mrs. Chambers showed them her collection.  None of them fit the kids, but they would work well enough and they at least had fun, trying them all on.

“You ain’t gettin’ one?” asked Mr. Callahan when he noticed Constance, hatless and standing aside, in the corner.

“I don’t burn.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Hats do more than keepin’ you from burnin’.  They keep the sun outta your eyes, too. I seen you squintin’ against it.”  He looked over all the dusty hats, grabbed the biggest, ugliest one there was and settled it atop her head.  Even with her hair piled on her crown, the hat dropped over into her line of view.

He pushed it up, dipped to look beneath the brim, saw her tiny little smile.  “There. You look real fine.”

“Well, it would certainly keep the sun from my eyes.”

Mr. Callahan chuckled and pulled it off her, tossed it.  He grabbed something a bit smaller--a lady’s bonnet. He carefully put it on her head and looked her over.  “That’s better. Look and see.”

She glanced to a window, saw Mr. Callahan’s reflection looking at hers.  She barely noticed the bonnet but supposed it was fine.

“Looks real proper,” he said.

She hummed and tied the ribbon at her chin.  “You have an eye for fashion, sir.”

He kind of laughed, frowned at the same time.  “Shut up.”

It would have been rude, coming from someone else.  But it just made her smile a little more, blush.

“Look at our hats,” said Grace, appearing at Mr. Callahan’s leg with Faith in tow.

“Very lovely,” he said, which made them giggle and scatter like mice.  He smiled after them, caught Constance staring. “They’re real fine kids.”

“That’s only because they’re sweet on you.  Otherwise, they’re quite incorrigible.”

Mr. Callahan huffed and muttered something self-deprecating beneath his breath, dipping his head to hide beneath his hat once more.

Mother was at the counter, looking strained as she picked through her pockets.  Constance drifted over and listened as she asked Mrs. Chambers if she could pay in trinkets.

Mrs. Chambers had her brows pinched together.  But then she looked to the children, all wearing hats that were much too big for their heads.  They were making dizzying circles in the middle of the store, to see who would fall over first.  Then Mrs. Chambers sighed and took the cuff links Mother had offered. “Sure, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” said Mother.

Mr. Callahan had missed it all.  He’d had to pick Gideon off the floor.

Constance moved closer to her mother and whispered, “Do we have anything left at all?”

“Your father’s watch,” said Mother.  “Your grandmother’s necklace. And my wedding ring.  That’s it.”

The sun felt especially hot and bright when they walked back outside, even with Constance’s new bonnet.

“There’s the boarding house there.  You’ll have to go into the gunshop to rent a room, though--that’s where the owner operates from,” said Mr. Callahan.

“Oh, we’re staying the night?” asked Mother.

Mr. Callahan shrugged.  “Thought you folks might like a proper rest.  The trek to Armadillo is gonna take a few more days.”

“It isn’t necessary,” said Mother.  “Really. We’re fit to keep going.”

Mr. Callahan looked at her for a moment, his hands on his hips.  Then he nodded, scratched his jaw. “Well, if I’m bein’ real honest, I’d like to stay the night.  I got some credit at the gunshop anyways--you can use it to rent a room.”

“Oh, we couldn’t.”

“Sure, you can.  It’s only right over there--just a short walk.”

“No, I meant we couldn’t take any more charity from you, Mr. Callahan.”

He sighed, grabbed his belt.  “I know what you meant. And it ain’t charity, not really.  I want to stay the night. They always got a good game of poker goin’ at the saloon, and I’m desperate to play.”

Constance looked to her mother and waited.  So did the children.

The sun was shifting in the sky, catching grit and dirt like gold dust in the light.  A big cloud blew past, into Constance’s eyes.

“All right,” said Mother.

The children looked excited once more in their big, stupid hats.

“If you’re sure,” she added.

“Sure I’m sure.”  Mr. Callahan offered a quick smile.  “I’ll go square things with the owner and be back shortly.”

Constance watched him walk off, into the store.  Then she glanced back at her mother. “Why do you think he’s being so helpful?”

“Perhaps he’s a gift from God.”

Constance went silent at this.  She knew nothing to say that would not be disrespectful and faithless.  Her mother walked in a different light than she. Or, perhaps, her mother just walked where the light was brightest.  And Constance could not keep up and sometimes got left in the beginnings of shadow.

 

* * *

 

The room Mr. Callahan’s favor bought them was on the second floor, up a curl of outdoor steps.  It had faded wallpaper, sand stuck between the floorboards, and a crooked painting on the wall. There was one very small bed.

“I guess the children can sleep there,” said Mother.

“No.  You can.  The children and I can sleep on the floor.  You need some rest.”

“All of you need rest, darling--”

“Take the bed, Mother.”  Constance walked over to one of the windows.  Outside, on a brown jut of rock, was a windmill.  It spun lazily in a hot breeze and explained the constant and rhythmic creaking she’d been hearing.

They didn’t eat because they couldn’t afford to.  The children fell asleep with their stomachs growling loud, and Constance laid beside them, hot in that airless room.

She dreamed only a little and woke before the dawn.  Her mother looked almost peaceful in the bed, and Constance was thankful for that, at least.  The children had finally cooled and calmed in the night, and they huddled together, three little lumps beneath the blanket.

Constance stood up and dressed quietly.

Outside, the windmill still creaked.  On the horizon, she could see just a little light.  She left the room, to see it better, to watch the sun rise.  Her father used to say that’s when he felt God most, at the beginning of a new day, when most of the world was still asleep.  Constance wanted to feel God now. 

She waited, on the steps leading up to their room, and watched the sun push its way above the mountains.  The sky turned gold and pink, and still, her peace did not come, nor did God but only Mr. Callahan.

The stables were nearby, and this is where she assumed he was heading until he spotted her.

“You’re up early,” he said.  His voice was rough, slurring in places, and he had to pause a moment, to rest against the side of the boarding house.

“So are you.”  She looked at him, peeped beneath the brim of his hat.  “Or perhaps you haven’t been to bed at all.”

He shrugged.  “Sometimes when the winnin’ is good, it’s hard to step away from the poker table.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to step away from the bottle, too.”

A brief smile touched his lips.  “And what’d you know ‘bout that, girl?”

She flushed a little, felt a flare of irritation.  “Are you fit to travel today? You seem to be in quite a state.”

He looked at her directly, no longer hiding behind his hat.  His eyes were still a shock, the color of water in the desert.  They were bloodshot, tired and drunk, but hard, too. She began to regret asking him such a question.

“I’m fine,” he said and she did not argue it.

But two hours later, as they walked and the sun crept high and the children fidgeted in the horse’s saddle, Mr. Callahan was sick in some brush.

The children were made nervous by it.  Father and David had been unable to keep food and drink, near the end.  They spit up like infants and moaned like madmen. They’d distant-eyed and sweaty strangers then.

When Gideon asked Constance if Mr. Callahan would be okay, she scoffed.  “He’s only whiskey-sick.”

Mother, of course, tried to help.  She went to Mr. Callahan and touched his shoulder.  He jerked away, surprised. He wiped at his mouth and spit, and Mother asked if they should rest a moment.

“I’m fine,” he said.  “Just… just gimme a minute.”

A minute passed.  Then two.

Constance tried to fan herself but it only served in making her hotter.  The sun was directly overhead, and even with their new hats, it felt as though they were baking, hardening to dust.

The horse spooked suddenly.  It reared, and the motion upset the delicate balance the children had.  

It was Faith who fell, and Constance barely caught her.  The weight tipped them, and they toppled backwards, Constance taking the brunt of the fall on her back.  It knocked the wind out of her, and the sun went directly in her eyes, white-hot and disorienting.

Faith screamed, scrambling against Constance, but before she could react, there was a gunshot.

It was so loud that Constance lost hearing for a moment.  She laid in the dirt, blind and deaf, until her senses returned. 

Everything had happened very quickly, in the space of a few heartbeats.

Constance blinked, sitting up, finding her eyes and ears once more.  A shadow passed over her, a breath of shade.

It was Mr. Callahan crouching before her, the sun behind him.  “You all right?”

She looked down at herself.  Then she looked to her left, saw a dead snake.  Its blood was bright against the sand, and she did not know why she reached for it, as if to touch it.  But Mr. Callahan quickly caught her wrist. He was wearing gloves, and it was the first time he’d touched her.

“I wouldn’t,” he said, quiet.  “Rattlesnakes can bite even after they’re dead.”

She blinked again, her ears still ringing a little.  She looked for Faith next and found her near their mother, clinging to her skirts but unharmed.

“Thank you,” said Constance.

“Sure.”  Mr. Callahan let go of her wrist but grabbed her hand, helped her to her feet.

Gideon was less shaken by the whole ordeal, more impressed with Mr. Callahan by the minute.  Faith refused to get back on the horse, and so Grace got down, too, to walk with her sister.

They only made it a bit further before sunset, and so they camped in a canyon, near a rail line.

They all stayed very close to the fire, except for Mr. Callahan who rested against a rock and fell asleep sitting up, his hat low over his face.  The children went next, then Mother, and Constance was last, staring up at the star-scattered sky, listening to the breaths around her, the howl of coyotes in the distance.

She dreamed of rattlesnakes.


	4. Stranger Storms

It was the smell of Mother’s coffee percolating over the fire, rather than the heat of the morning sun, that seemed to rouse Mr. Callahan. He’d slept through the dawn, still sitting straight up with his back against that rock. Then he’d inhaled real sharp and lifted his hat off his face, squinted in the soft light.

Faith took him a steaming cup of coffee, and he thanked her, his voice gruff with sleep and surprise. She ran back to Mother, smiling shy.

Gideon sat in Constance’s lap, and Grace and Faith started drawing shapes in the sand. No one seemed to be in a real big hurry to start walking again.

Constance’s feet were blistered and sore. It seemed, despite all the traveling she’d done so far, they would not harden up.

“Looks like rain,” said Mr. Callahan, staring at the sky.

Constance looked up, too. There were a few wispy clouds but she did not see storms in them.

“How can you tell?” asked Gideon.

“It’s that time of year,” said Mr. Callahan. “And there’s just somethin’ in the air that tells you. Can you feel it?”

Gideon contemplated a moment, very serious, then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I can.”

Constance felt nothing but a dry breeze. Her whole life she had been surrounded by people who felt and saw things she couldn’t.

She often wondered who was blind--them or her.

It became clear, all rather quickly, who was blind in the case of the rains.

A great cloud moved over the sky, inky gray like smoke, and they began walking beneath its shadow. The air turned cool and hair-raising, and Mr. Callahan’s horse huffed and the children grew nervous.

Constance knew Pennsylvania summer storms. She’d watched many of them from the front porch of their cabin. The world seemed very green against the iron-colored sky. There would be a pause, a weight in the air, all before the first raindrop fell. And when finally the heavens opened and the water came, there was something like relief. As if the world sighed and the wait was over.

These desert storms were strangers, though.

The weight and violence did not lessen once the rains came but intensified.

Constance had never been so thoroughly soaked through, so quickly. It was hard to see, and the thunder rumbled her insides. Land that had been so dusty and dry turned to muddy quicksand beneath their feet and little rivers formed, currents pulling at their ankles as they walked.

Faith grabbed onto her skirts, and it made things difficult. Constance stumbled, nearly pitching forward, half-blind in the flood, but there was a hand at her elbow, catching her.

Mr. Callahan looked at her, rain waterfalling off the brim of his hat. He let go of her once she’d steadied. “We gotta get outta this. The lightning’s gettin’ closer.”

“Where can we go?” asked Mother. She was a pale blur in the rain.

“There’s a farm up the way. Ridgewood. I know the folks there. Good people. I reckon they’d take us in.”

“How far is it?” Mother had to yell to be heard.

“Only a few minutes,” he said.

The sky flashed with a streak of purple lightning and thunder followed close behind. Faith jolted out of her skin, always the most fearful of storms.

“You wanna get back on the horse?” Mr. Callahan asked her. “Your sister can’t walk with you tangled in her skirts.”

Faith shook her head frantically, clinging tighter to Constance. But she quickly let loose when Mr. Callahan bent down, offered to pick her up. She held her arms out wide for him, and he lifted her, settled her on his hip.

“You don’t have--” Constance began.

“It’s fine. Let’s get goin’. We shouldn’t linger out here.” He grabbed the horse’s reins with one hand, held up Faith with the other, and started ahead.

Mother and Constance followed, Grace holding onto Mother’s hand. Constance could not see Grace’s expression in the deluge, but she could sense her jealousy, nonetheless.

It was slow-moving, their progress. The rains eased up just a bit, enough for Constance to see them passing between a ridge, and then below them, in a fishbowl of rock, sat a big house and horse corrals and a barn, too.

“That’s it,” said Mr. Callahan.

When they neared the house, the front door banged open. A man stood in the shelter of the porch, two pretty hanging pots on either side of him, filled with purple flowers. In his hands was a shotgun.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked. The rain ran off the edge of the porch, made his features blurry. Constance could only see that he was tall, bean-pole skinny, and mustached.

“Just some travelers. I know Mr. and Mrs. Adams--helped ‘em out with a coyote problem they was havin’ a while back, among other things. They near?” asked Mr. Callahan. He was still holding onto Faith, and she was clinging close to him, eyeing that man’s gun.

“Maybe. But we been havin’ trouble with bandits lately.”

“Is it the kids who look like bandits or the two women that are givin’ you pause?” asked Mr. Callahan. Constance couldn’t see his face but she knew he rolled his eyes.

“It’s you who looks like a desperado,” said the man.

Mr. Callahan’s sigh could be heard over the storm. “Look, mister, just go fetch Mrs. Adams and tell her Arthur Callahan is--”

“Move, move!” came a voice from behind the man. He kind of jolted, like he’d been pushed, and the shape of a woman appeared. Rounded and short. “Arthur! I’ll be damned. You ain’t washed away in this, then?”

“Not yet, ma’am.”

“Well, thank God for that. And you got folk with you! Children! Goddamn. Well, come on in then.” The woman glanced at her companion on the porch, huffed. “Horace, put that damn gun down ‘fore you shoot yourself.”

The man lowered the gun and his head. He stepped aside for them to come up on the porch.

“Stable Arthur’s horse, Horace,” said the woman.

“But--”’

“Oh, no. I can manage.” Mr. Callahan handed Faith off to Constance then he helped Gideon out of the saddle.

“Come on in, folks.” The woman was waving them forward, nearly shoving Mother inside. The children quickly trailed behind her, afraid of moving out from the shadow of her skirts in a stranger’s home.

Constance hesitated, though. She looked back to Mr. Callahan as he stepped off the porch, grabbed the horse’s reins again.

“Come on, girl, what are you waitin’ for?” asked the short little woman.

Mr. Callahan glanced back, caught Constance’s eyes. He nodded once. “I’ll be there shortly.”

She nodded back, allowed the woman to push her inside.

Horace tried to follow them but the woman shook her head. “No, you go on out. Make sure all the horses are settled. I don’t want none of them still out in the corrals, gettin’ lightnin’ struck. And help Mr. Callahan with anythin’ he needs.”

Before Horace could protest, the woman had the door slamming in his face.

It was a different world, beneath a roof, in a home--Constance had nearly forgotten it. The sound of the storm was muffled, and it was warm, golden, and dry here. There was a piano in the corner, a flight of stairs leading up to a stretch of closed doors. The ceiling was very high, and it felt strange and hazy and big.

Mother stood with Grace and Gideon, dripping water onto the rugs. “I’m terribly sorry--” she began.

“No need to apologize,” said the woman. She brushed past Constance, put her hands on her hips. “You just come in from a monsoon. I weren’t expectin’ you to be dry.”

“Thank you for letting us inside, Missus…?”

“Olive Adams,” said the woman, real direct. She had a booming voice, to be so small. In the lamplight, Constance saw cracks of age in the woman’s face, big sunspots on her cheeks. Her hair was gray and frizzy, pulled messily into a chignon. “And who might you be?”

“My name is Lorena Fayne. These are my children--Grace, Faith, Gideon, and my eldest is Constance.”

Mrs. Olive Adams gave them all a once over. She still had her hands planted firm on her wide hips. “Mighty Christian names.”

“We’re Christian people,” said Mother. Her voice was gentle. “My husband was a minister.”

“Was?”

“He… passed recently.”

“And you’ve taken up with Arthur, then?”

Mother laughed once, a little pink-cheeked. “Oh--no. No, Mr. Callahan is simply a kind soul who helped us in our time of need.”

“Well, Mr. Callahan is an all right feller, I’ll grant you that. But I doubt he’s ‘simply’ anythin’.” Mrs. Adams looked over to Constance as she said this, and Constance merely raised an eyebrow. Mrs. Adams gave a short little chuckle. “Anyway, I apologize for my language out there--you bein’ good Christian folk and all. We believe in God ‘round these parts but there ain’t much time for services and such, seein’ as how the closest church is a day’s ride. And I’m surrounded by filthy-mouthed ranchin’ men, too. It wears on you.”

“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Adams. We don’t concern ourselves with such things. Actions are more important than words, and you’ve proven yourself to be kind, taking us in like this.”

“You sure talk fancy, though. Ain’t from here, I reckon.” Mrs. Adams gave them one more once-over. “From the East Coast? Up north?”

“Pennsylvania,” said Mother, nodding.

“Uh-huh. Well, we’re but poor country folk ‘round here. Most of us ain’t got no schoolin’. But we certainly can cook. And you all look to be needin’ some nourishment.”

Gideon looked excited by the prospect but kept his manners after a sharp look from Mother.

“Thank you,” she said once he was in check. “We can work for our stay.”

“Sure, sure.” Mrs. Adams fluttered her hands. She had short, fat fingers and rings that glittered on them. “But first, why don’t you take off your shoes. Get dried up a bit.”

The door banged open behind them, a rush of wind and rain slanting inside. Mr. Callahan slipped in as fast as he could. When he looked down, water rushed from the brim of his hat, puddled in the floor.

He glanced to Mrs. Adams, a little bashful. “Sorry.”

She just sighed. “Mr. Callahan. You just can’t seem to turn away folks in need, can you?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she chuckled and held up her hands.

“Oh, but I know. You ain’t a good man,” she said, nodding. “Well, it’s getting close to dinnertime. I’ll need some help preparin’ things. You can cook, can’t you, girl?”

Constance was looking at Mr. Callahan. He’d taken his hat off, dumped a little more water on the floor, was trying to discreetly smooth it away with his boot.

“Constance can cook,” said Mother.

“She just can’t talk, then?”

Constance’s eyes flickered back to Mrs. Adams, who was watching her with a little smile. “I can talk, ma’am.”

“Good. Mr. Callahan, go see to Horace, would you? I don’t trust the fool not to drown himself in a puddle. As for the rest of you, follow me.”

 

* * *

 

The kitchen grew hot, and Mrs. Adams proved herself a master baker. She was the kind who was hungry for information and eager to give it, too. She taught Constance new tricks in pie-making and questioned her about details of Costance’s life all the while.

“How old are you, girl?”

“Twenty-three, ma’am.”

“And you ain’t married?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Mrs. Adams said, much to Constance’s surprise. “Don’t see why women are expected to marry off so soon to the first idiot who shows ‘em attention. I married at twenty-four! An old maid all the women ‘round me said. But I held out, married me a good man. Mr. Wilbur Adams. I hated the name Wilbur and still do but I love him. As stupid as he can sometimes be.”

Constance nodded, working at some dough under Mrs. Adam’s watchful supervision.

Behind her, the children sat chopping vegetables. Mother was skinning potatoes in long, practiced peels. It almost felt as if they were at home, but Mother was not humming beneath her breath and the children were not waiting for the sound of Father coming down from his study.

“Where is Mr. Adams?” asked Mother.

“He’s in Armadillo at the moment. Out for supplies.” Mrs. Adams squinted at the windows. Outside, the land was dark and the rains were falling hard once more, splashing against the glass. “Hope he’s all right. Armadillo is a real sick town. But Tumbleweed ain’t got much. So it’s the lesser of two evils. We’re out in godless country, you know.”

“Oh, no country is godless, Mrs. Adams.”

Mrs. Adams gave a quick look back at Mother. “Didn’t this land take your boy and your man? I sure wish I had such resolve, Mrs. Fayne. So much faith. I fear I sometimes get weakened by this world we live in.”

Mother only smiled. A stranger would not be able to see the sadness in that smile but Constance could.  Her mother looked old, all of a sudden.  She looked like a painting that had been in the light too long, faded and cracked. Mother said, “We all get weakened, Mrs. Adams.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what I could improve and if you see any glaring grammatical errors. I know a few are slipping through. :( Thanks to the people who've commented so far. Been really touched by the thoughtfulness and kindness.


	5. God in Thunder and Storms

Mr. Callahan and Horace reappeared at dinnertime, drenched to the bone, with a boy in tow.

“This is my grandson,” said Mrs. Adams. “Theodore but we just call him Theo. Theo, say hello.”

“Hello,” said the boy. He was tall--stretched and gangly--and hiding some very big ears behind a tumble of light hair. He smiled shy at everyone but smiled especially shy at Constance.

They ate dinner by candlelight, the room smoky and the storm outside raging. Mrs. Adams asked Mother to say grace. Theo kept sneaking glances at Constance, until she felt afraid to look up from her plate. Mr. Callahan stayed silent, only grunting out one-word answers when Mrs. Adams asked him something directly.

Constance dared to look up at him just once, and when she did, she found him looking back. He was without his hat, and his sharp edges were softened by the light.

She looked back at her plate and didn’t glance up again.

After dinner and desert, they retired to the parlor where it came out that Mother could play the piano. Mrs. Adams asked her to play a few songs since Mr. Adams had taken the only farmhand who could play to Armadillo.

Mother obliged, settling down with the children hovering around her.

Constance took a seat on the sofa, and only a moment later, Theo was settling beside her. He kept a respectable distance between them, but there was longing in that distance. Once the music started and there was life in the room, he looked at her. Cleared his throat.

“Could I get you anythin’, miss?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” She gave a quick and polite smile, saw hope spark in his eyes. So she looked away.

The children were smiling, candle-lit and dry. It was the happiest Constance had seen them in weeks. Being in a home again seemed to put them at ease.

Constance did not feel the same ease, though. She only felt old memories. They tried to resurface--evenings with Mother playing the piano and singing softly and Father sitting in his chair, reading the bible or the paper. Him smiling over at Constance when he caught her looking. The crinkle of his eyes above his spectacles.

“Your mother plays very well,” said Theo.

Constance only nodded. Her gaze wandered until she saw Mr. Callahan, moving like a shadow at the edge of the room. He went outside and no one noticed but her.

“Can you play?” asked Theo.

“Uh, yes. A bit.” Constance risked another glance at him.

She’d never held the attention of men or boys. Her mother dressed her plain, always, and warned her of the sin of making men lustful. It seemed Theo would not be dissuaded from lust, though, or at the very least longing. She thought this was not her sin to bear but his.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I’d like to get some air.”

Before he could respond or offer to accompany her, she stood up and made her escape, as silently as Mr. Callahan’s. Outside, it was cold. The rain was pouring, thunder rumbling in the distance, but the porch was relatively dry, lit by the light from inside.

Mr. Callahan sat in one of the chairs, smoking. He’d taken off his hat, rested it on his knee, and when he looked at her, she could see his eyes. His hair was a bit long, a strand falling forward and tangling in his lashes.

“I needed some air,” she said though he hadn’t asked.

“Or some time away from that lovesick boy.” He smiled a little. His features were shadowy in the low light.

She walked closer, so that she could see him better. “May I sit with you a while?”

“It’s awful nasty out here.”

“Is that to say you’d like to be alone?”

He was still looking at her in a way that made her very shy. “I didn’t say that.”

She sat in the chair next to his, smoothed out her skirts. “Then, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay out here.”

“Well, it’s a free country. Or so I’m told.”

She looked at the rain, watched it fall off the edge of the porch. It was easier than meeting Mr. Callahan’s gaze. “It seems especially free out here.”

Throughout Constance’s life, this land was all she ever heard about. Tales of outlaws, gunfighters, Indians, gold, buffalo, women who wore pants--these were the dreams blown to her on a hot westerly wind. A land where there was something for everyone. She had never bought fully into it. After all, how could a place hold peace for those who looked for it but violence for those who craved it? How could it hold riches and famine?

“It’s less free than it used to be,” said Mr. Callahan. She could feel him watching her. “Less wild.”

“It seems wild to me. It’s unlike anything I imagined it to be.” She thought of the scar on his chin, the sun freckles on his nose. The desert tan of his skin. “But I suppose you’re used to it.”

He shrugged one shoulder, took a pull from his cigarette. “I suppose.”

The rain had eased up again. There was a bit more familiarity in the storm now. Perhaps because it had changed or perhaps because she had. She stood, stretched her hand out. Felt the cool water falling against her open palm.

The land was dark without the moon but lit in brilliant flashes from far-off lightning. Things looked strange in that violet light.

“You ain’t scared of all this?” asked Mr. Callahan.

She assumed he meant the storms so she shook her head. “No,” she said, leaning against the porch railing. Water misted her face. Drops clung to her lashes. “I could watch it forever when it’s like this. My father said he could feel God in sunrises, but I suppose I can feel Him more in storms.”

“Your god is a wrathful one, then.”

She turned, put the rain at her back. Mr. Callahan was still seated. Still smoking and still watching her. His face glowed in the light of his cigarette.

“I take it you aren’t a religious man,” she said.

“Would it offend you terribly if I said I was not?”

She gave the smallest of smiles, brushed strands of rain-frizzed hair behind her ears. “No, of course not.”

He smiled back in the dark. She could barely see it. It was brief, and his eyes dipped away from her. He seemed to think on something for a moment, then he kind of shrugged and said, “It ain’t that I got anythin’ against religion, really. I met a lot of good people who believed. Met this nun once--she was a real special lady. I knew a reverend, too--and he was a fool drunk and morphine addict--but he pulled himself together, in the end. He always tried, too, even when he was at his worst. Always had faith. But I known a lot of religious people who’ve been bad, too. Who’ve taken from the poor only to line their own pockets. Who done awful things in the name of God.”

“So is it God you don’t believe in or the church?”

“I don’t believe in much of nothin’, miss.” He flicked his cigarette away, rubbed at the joints in his hands. He kept his shadowy eyes downcast. “Not anymore, anyway.”

“What was it you used to believe in?” Constance asked.

A little smile curled the corner of his mouth. He was still looking down at his hands, and he wasn’t wearing gloves tonight. It was the first time she’d seen him without them. There were scars on his knuckles, just as she knew there would be. They were faint and white in the low light.

He did not answer her.

“I haven’t thanked you,” she said after a moment.

“What for?”

“For helping us. I must admit… I was a bit wary of you, at first.”

He finally looked up at her again, not from beneath the brim of a hat but from beneath his lashes. “And you ain’t now?”

A few flashes of lightning lit the air between them and turned them strange colors.

“Maybe a little,” she said.

They stared at each other again until another flash of lightning came. Then Mr. Callahan exhaled a laugh, looked away. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

Inside the house, Mother still played the piano and the music floated out to them, along with voices and soft laughter. But here, on the porch, there was only the thump of rain.

“How old are you, anyway?” Mr. Callahan asked, real sudden. He still didn’t look at her.

“Twenty-three.”

He leaned back in his seat, lifted his brows. “My Lord.”

This reaction interested her a little. “Did you think I was older or younger?”

“Older, I reckon,” he said and then, when he peeped up at her, saw her raise her own eyebrows, he cleared his throat. Looked away again. “I just mean… there’s somethin’ about you that seems…”

“Old?”

His exhale came on the tail-end of a laugh, and he shook his head. “That ain’t what I meant.”

“I know,” she said. She felt herself smiling, just a bit. He was curious. Different without that hat hiding him. Different in the quiet of an evening, with a storm raging. “I’m only teasing you. How old are you?”

“Very old,” he said, nodding.

“They say you’re only as old as you feel.”

“In that case, I feel like that feller in the bible who lived so long… what was his crazy name? You’d know better than I would.”

“Methuselah.”

“Right. I feel like him.” Mr. Callahan scratched at his jaw, shook his head. “Didn’t he live to be a thousand years old?”

“Nearly. So it’s been told, anyway.”

“I bet he was sick of livin’, by that point.”

“Maybe,” said Constance.

Behind her, the rain picked up again, as did the wind. It pushed in, beneath the cover of the porch, and the lightning came closer again, painted the sky in streaks. Thunder followed, and it was loud.

The music and voices inside the house had stopped, and Constance realized how late it was. She felt the weight of the day in her eyes, on her shoulders.

“I suppose I should go to bed,” she told Mr. Callahan.

He nodded, watching the storm. Then his gaze shifted to her and he inclined his head. “Rest up. If this storm’s gone by the mornin’, we’ll get movin’ again.”

She went to the door but paused, looked back at him. He was putting another cigarette between his lips, searching for a match to light it. Again, she felt that strange urge to say more. But words had never come easy for her.

They had for her father. He’d had many words--the bible’s, prophet’s, his own. Her mother had them, too, in a quieter way. The people in town would always come to her, moved by some kindness in her face maybe, and they would tell her their most outlandish experiences. Mother never blinked or hesitated. She always took their hand and said something sweet, something soothing. Those words just came to her.

Constance dealt in silences, though.

All she could find to say now was, “Goodnight, Mr. Callahan.”

He looked back over at her, that unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. “Night, Miss Fayne.”

She went inside quickly after that. Mrs. Adams was the only one left in the parlor. She was sitting on the couch, smoking and drinking a cup of tea. She told Constance that her family was upstairs. She pointed to the correct room, and Constance made her way to it.

The room was long and outfitted with three beds. Mother slept in one, with Gideon. The girls slept in another. Everyone was still, breathing deep, and the oil lamps were low--just enough light to keep Faith from being afraid.

Constance stripped down to her chemise and climbed in the empty bed. She listened to the storm outside and stared at the shadowy ceiling, the wisps of spiderwebs that clung in the corners.

She felt a little restless. The sound of rain against a roof usually lulled her to a quick sleep but it did nothing for her tonight. She kept thinking of Mr. Callahan. She wondered if he was still outside, smoking and watching. He seemed a very watchful man.

There was a slight shuffle from the other side of the room. Constance heard little footsteps and then, she felt the bed dip. Gideon snuggled into her side, and she pulled him close, kissed the top of his head.

“Night, sister,” he whispered, sleepy.

This sound soothed her.

“Goodnight,” she said. And then, listening to her little brother breathe, she finally fell to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to let everyone know that I'm going to be changing the canon timeline a bit over the next few chapters. For those who played the first RDR this will really be apparent. :)
> 
> Also if anyone knows any good resources for clothing for this time period and is willing to share them with me, I'd be appreciative. I've found some things online, but I don't trust a lot of it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is reading, and please continue with any constructive criticism! Don't be shy! I won't take it personally. I'm trying to improve as a writer. :)


	6. Old and New Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that this fic was inspired by "Far From Any Road" by the Handsome family. <3 It's a lovely song.

For months, they had risen with the sun and followed its crawl west, until it disappeared behind the horizon.

But this morning Constance woke to a sunless sky. She felt a little lost in all the gray, but Gideon’s knees digging into her back grounded her.

She got up and dressed quietly, as to not wake her family. They deserved what little rest they could get. It had been a very long time since Constance had seen them all sleeping so peacefully, even the twins who must have been too tired to have night terrors.

Constance moved through the quiet house. It was cloudy and cold, and she would have felt like a ghost had it not been for the creak of floorboards beneath her feet.

She found Mrs. Adams in the kitchen. She was drinking coffee and staring out her backdoor, at the flood of her land. The rivers in the dirt were rising closer to the house, but Mrs. Adams did not look worried.

She only glanced at Constance and said, “There’s fresh coffee over there.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” said Constance, coming to stand beside her.

“Is there some kind of sin against that? ‘Cause if so, I’m 'fraid I’m bound for hell.”

Constance smiled, leaned against the wall. She watched the water with Mrs. Adams. “There’s no sin against it that I know of. I just think it tastes rotten.”

Mrs. Adams chuckled. With her free hand, she found herself a rolled cigarette and put it between her lips. She produced a match from her apron pocket and struck it against the wall. “Coffee’s an acquired taste. I didn’t like it when I was your age neither.”

“I don’t understand why people force themselves to like something,” said Constance.

“We’re strange creatures, humans.”

“That is very true.”

Constance became aware that Mrs. Adams was no longer watching the rain but watching her. Studying. Mrs. Adams had keen eyes surrounded by crow’s feet, almost hidden in wrinkles. Her gaze made Constance feel a bit transparent.

She tried to change the subject. “Have you seen Mr. Callahan this morning?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Adams kicked open her back door to dump the ash from her cigarette. A gust of rainy air blew in, damp and sharp. “He’s out in the barn with Horace, I believe.”

Constance nodded. She felt her hair lifting and trying to curl against her temples, defiant against her braids.

“You sure like to keep track of Mr. Callahan. I wonder--is it 'cause you're suspicious of him?”

Constance thought of his height and his hat and those guns. The scars. She merely shrugged. “I don’t know very much about him.”

“To hear your mother tell it, sounds like he saved you and your folks from a bad spot.”

“He did. And for that, I’m grateful.”

“But ain’t exactly trustin’, are you? Well, I reckon you ain’t got nothin’ to fear from Mr. Callahan unless you’re a coyote stealin’ chickens or a bandit with a bounty.”

“I don’t fear him.”

“He just makes you a bit nervous, then?” Mrs. Adams smoked and stared Constance down. She gave a little laugh. “He’s got the eyes to make someone nervous, that’s for certain.”

Constance thought this a strange thing to say. It was not his eyes that made her wary, was it, but the overall look of him? The slow way he walked and the guns on his hips and the hard lines of his face. But then, no--she remembered the first sighting of him, on that horse. The memory was already fading to shadow, but the shock of seeing his eyes for the first time--that remained clear.

She did not tell this to Mrs. Adams.

 

* * *

 

Her family rose, and Mrs. Adams was not at all perturbed that they would be staying another day. It provided no shortage of workers for her, and it was canning season, after all.

They spent hours in the kitchen, a rhythm to their work. Mother dealt with the jars. Constance and the children prepared the vegetables. Mrs. Adams did the boiling. And soon the room became an oven.

Then, like a miracle, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and the house grew hotter still.

The children could no longer be held by the promise of snapping beans. They had two days’ worth of outside energy, and Mother finally released them to it. They poured out the back door, banging loudly, hooping and hollering and splashing into puddles.

Mother and Mrs. Adams began talking of womanly things that bored Constance, and Theo reappeared, too. As he sat down at the kitchen table with her, she could still hear her siblings playing outside and she wished she had joined them.

“I suppose you will be headin’ on tomorrow with the weather clearin' up,” said Theo. He stared at the table as he spoke, picking at a splinter.

She really looked at him, then, with no fear of him misinterpreting her gaze. There was a spill of freckles over his nose, and he was very fine-boned. Something about the way his big ears peeked from his hair softened her towards him, just a bit.

“I suppose,” she said.

He looked up at her. She was still snapping beans, and he offered to help, with a blush inching across his cheeks.  She nodded, and he went to work, very serious about it.

“How old are you?” she asked.

He looked up again, a bit startled, his eyes darting back and forth. “Um. Seventeen. Ma’am--I mean, miss.”

She smiled a little, hopefully to ease some of his nerves. “You’re the same age as my brother.”

Theo frowned, his eyes wandering to the windows. He stared at Gideon, who was still outside and trying to splash muddy puddles at Faith.

“Oh, not him, but my other brother,” said Constance. “David. You remind me of him.”

She could tell this disappointed Theo. His shoulders slumped, but he did not pout long. He only said, “Is he the one you lost? I… I heard you lost a brother and your pa.”

“Yes,” said Constance. She looked down to her work, recalled a time when she had done this very thing with her grandmother back home. Sitting on a porch, watching the sun dance through the leaves, tasting the breeze of summer. Hearing her grandmother sing hymns beneath her breath.  The creak of her rocking chair against the boards.

“I lost my folks, too. My ma and pa. Few years back.”

“I’m sorry,” she said and she meant it. She knew death to be everywhere, but it seemed to favor this land, above all others.

“It’s all right.” Theo shrugged a little, then looked up at her. He offered a smile, and it was very young and hopeful and sweet. It looked like he had never known loss, and she envied him that smile.

 

* * *

 

The sun had dipped sideways by the time she went outdoors but it at least remained, unhidden by clouds.

Golden light caught in the puddles, reflected bright enough to sting the eyes. Already, the land was drying again and dust was swimming in the air, pollen-like and reminding her of home.

Her fingers smelled like green beans as she wandered towards the barn. It had been a full day of canning, but they had finished it up, much to Mrs. Adams’s delight.  Then, after helping with dinner, Mrs. Adams had told Constance to fetch the men.

She’d said: “Go find Mr. Callahan, dearie.” Then, like an afterthought, she smiled and said, “Oh and Horace, too.”

Horace she found at the corrals, watching some of the horses. They wandered in happy circles, finally freed from the confines of the stables.

“Dinner is ready,” said Constance.

“All right, girlie. Thanks.” He tipped his hat towards her, started for the house with a little haste in his steps.

She thought she should ask him where Mr. Callahan was, but she didn’t. She went to the barn instead.

Constance had grown up in rural land, in the mountains and near farms, too. It was comforting to know that barns, no matter where they were in the country, always had the same smell, the same air.

The light was shining in big golden beams overhead, and it was quiet and a bit holy seeming. All the stalls were empty except for one, and in it, stood Mr. Callahan’s horse. Constance approached it slowly, looking at it as she hadn’t before.

It was tall and lean, with strong but delicate legs. It had a brown face and silvery body that shifted blue in the light.

She was so enthralled that she didn’t hear him walking up behind her. For a big man, he moved quiet.

He said, from behind her, “You know how to ride?”

Constance felt the rumble of his voice. It reminded her of distant thunder in the midst of summer--not surprising but a little electric.

“Horses?” she asked.

Mr. Callahan came into her view, standing beside her. “No, buffalo.”

She only spared him the smallest of glances. “I don’t know how to ride horses, no.”

“I can teach you next,” he said. He shifted, grabbed his belt. “It ain’t so hard.”

Constance eyed the horse. To sit atop it--well, it’d be a long way up. More importantly, if she fell, it’d be a long way down.

“No, I like both feet being on the ground,” she replied.

“So you ain’t scared of storms but you’re scared of a horse,” he said.

“I’m not scared,” she said.

“Sure.” There was a smile in his voice. He stepped forward, patted the horse’s neck. It seemed to settle at the touch. “She’s real gentle so you ain’t gotta worry.”

“I once saw a man get thrown by a horse. Broke his neck right then and there.”

Mr. Callahan gave a quiet laugh. “I wouldn’t let you get your neck broke, girl. And like I said, Hippolyta is real gentle.”

“Hippolyta?”

“The horse,” he said.

“What kind of name is that?”

“She was a queen in Greek mythology. Her father was Ares, the god of war.”

“You know Greek mythology?”

“Ain’t gotta sound quite so surprised. I can read.” He didn’t sound outright offended, but he wouldn’t look at her, nonetheless.

“I know. I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that.” She paused, tried to find the right words. “I just… it surprised me, is all. I don’t know anything about Greek mythology.”

“Well, I reckon they wouldn’t teach it in country churches.” He smoothed his hand over Hippolyta’s nose, and she huffed, her eyes closing. “There, there.”

“I know you can read,” Constance said. “And write. I’ve seen you… writing in that journal.”

He looked over at her, kept petting the horse.

“It is a journal, isn’t it?” she asked.

He stared a moment longer, just to let her know the question was unwelcome, then looked back to Hippolyta. “Of sorts.”

“I’m sorry if I.. if you felt I was prying. I don’t mean to be intrusive.”

He laughed, shook his head. When he looked at her again, his face was softer. His eyes gentle. “The way you talk.”

She flushed. He’d said it like it was a compliment, but she didn’t know.

“Why don’t you brush her for me?” asked Mr. Callahan. “She’ll love you forever if you do.”

“I’m not sure--”

He was already looking for a brush and when he found one, he put it in Constance’s hand. Motioned towards Hippolyta. “Go ahead.”

“I don’t know how,” said Constance.

“Here.” He touched her shoulder, to draw her closer. He was real gentle with it all, like he was just as afraid of spooking her as she was the horse.

She’d never been so near to him. He smelled like sweat and hay, tobacco. He smelled like men she’d known back home, men who did work on her house for her father’s favor and prayers. There was no comfort in this familiarity, though.

“First of all, you never run up on a horse without lettin’ it know you’re there. That’s a good way to get yourself kicked. They can’t see all that well from certain spots,” said Mr. Callahan. He wasn’t looking at her but looking at his hands as they reached for her wrist. Very carefully, he lifted her hand to Hippolyta’s neck. “Give her a pat to let her know you’re all right.”

Constance touched nervously at Hippolyta’s neck. Hippolyta only huffed a little but didn’t sound irritated.

“Now, just bring the brush up. Go in the direction her hair’s growin’.”

Constance did as instructed, but she was too careful, brushing too light. Mr. Callahan laughed a little, put his hand over hers to guide her. He was wearing gloves again.

“Ain’t gotta be so timid,” he told Constance. He moved her hand, and the brush, in long strokes over Hippolyta’s neck. The horse huffed again, almost like a sigh. “Now you got it.”

He took his hand back, and Constance looked over to give him a little smile.

“Now, we just gotta get you in the saddle,” he said.

“I prefer walking.”

He just shook his head, hid his eyes beneath his hat, but she could still see his smile.

She knew she should tell him about dinner, but it was nice, listening only to the happy sounds Hippolyta made.

But then there were different sounds, not from her or the horse, but sounds outside. Voices.

Mr. Callahan and Constance heard them at the same time, glanced back in time to see Gideon running inside the barn, looking a little breathless.

“There’s a buncha men out there on horses!” said Gideon.

“What they look like?” Mr. Callahan was frowning now, hard lines settling back into his face. Constance realized then, that for a moment, those lines had been gone.

“I dunno.” Gideon shrugged. His cheeks were pink, his dark hair wind-blown from play. “They’re dressed nice.”

Mr. Callahan walked to a window but was careful not to lean out too far, Constance noticed. He only peered out enough to see.

She walked over and did the same.

In front of the porch sat six or seven men on horseback. They all wore suits, and one of them seemed to be asking for Mrs. Adams. His voice was loud and echoing.

“Should we go out there?” asked Constance.

“You can if you’d like.” Mr. Callahan’s jaw was tight.

Constance decided to stay put. She turned her gaze back to the men.

Mrs. Adams had appeared on the porch by then. She spoke loud enough to hear. “Well, what do you fools want?”

One of the men pushed his horse forward. He wore a dark bowler hat that seemed ill-fitted for desert dust. “Ma’am, we are with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

“Why the hell would you all be all the way out in these parts?” asked Mrs. Adams.

“Well, ma'am, we've heard rumors that Bill Williamson and his gang are in this area.”

Mr. Callahan made a sound. Not really a gasp, but it meant something. Constance looked at him, watched his face settle into even harder lines.

“We’ve been sent to track him down, ma’am. Before he can cause anymore trouble,” said the man. “Has he been through these parts?”

“No,” said Mrs. Adams. “He ain’t. And I doubt he will be. Why don’t, instead of chasin’ after ghosts from old dime novels, you fools chase after the honest-to-god real killers in these parts. We got plenty.”

A few of the men glanced among themselves. But the bowler man simply held out his hands and said, “Ma’am, we’re only doing what we’ve been ordered to. Trust me. Stopping Bill Williamson will be in your best interest.”

“Trust you?” Mrs. Adams made a snorting sound. “Trust the government? What have they ever done for us? Why the hell you think us folk live out here in this godforsaken country, anyway? It’s so we can get away from fools like you."

“So I take it we won’t be welcome in staying the night and resting up, then?” The bowler man sounded cool. Not outright irritated but Constance felt nervous, nonetheless. She felt like they were hiding in that barn, instead of just watching.  She was afraid he'd look over and catch them staring.

“We’re full up right now,” said Mrs. Adams. “Got some folks here who lost everythin’ to the real bandits I was talkin’ ‘bout. You’re welcome to let your horses drink and have some hay, but we ain’t got room for anythin’ else.”

There was a pause. A little ripple among those men on horseback. But their leader, the one in the hat, simply smiled. Constance could barely see it, with the distance between them, but it seemed unfriendly.

“We’ll be on our way in a moment, then, ma’am. Much obliged.”

“Sure,” Mrs. Adams said.

Mr. Callahan backed off from the window and looked around the barn--not like he was lost but like he was thinking deeply on something.

“Who’s Bill Williamson?” asked Gideon. If the man was immortalized in dime novels, then the Fayne children had never heard of him. Constance’s parents had not approved of such vulgar entertainment.

“He’s an outlaw,” said Mr. Callahan. He wasn’t moving but his mind seemed to be.

“An outlaw! Wow!” Gideon rocked back and forth on his feet. Constance could practically see the dramatic gunfights passing across her little brother’s imagination.  She saw gunsmoke in his eyes.

“Ain’t nothin’ to get excited over,” said Mr. Callahan, his voice low. “Ain’t nothin’ glorious ‘bout it, neither. You best get inside, kid. Get some dinner in you and rest. We’re headin’ out tomorrow and gonna move hard to get you folks into Armadillo.”

Gideon didn’t need anymore prompting. He listened to Mr. Callahan much better than he’d ever listened to Constance. She watched as her little brother took off, out of the barn.

She didn’t go with him. She was watching Mr. Callahan as he walked back over to Hippolyta, his hands on his belt.

Then he noticed her lingering and said, “That goes for you, too.”

Constance almost bristled at the commanding tone, but she didn’t. There was something bigger working in her mind, a sneaking suspicion shifting from smoke into something real.

Mr. Callahan found himself a cigarette and a match, struck it against his boot. He looked at her as he lit his smoke. Like he was waiting for something.

“Do you know him?” she asked. “That outlaw?”

Mr. Callahan shook out his match, flicked it away. “All someone’s gotta do is read a paper to know Bill Williamson.”

“You’re very good at not answering questions directly,” she said.

He took a few steps towards her, and she took a few back, on instinct alone.

He let her see his eyes, and he did not look like the same man he had before, when he was teaching her to brush Hippolyta.  When he spoke, that was different, too--his words low. “And you’re real good at not sayin’ just exactly what you mean. If you think I’m lyin’, just say so.”

She kept her mouth shut.

He nodded, looked away. “That’s what I thought.”

She took her leave, then, afraid to push further.  Outside, the men and their horses were gone, and the sky was getting dark, only a hint of light left on the horizon. She did not linger to marvel over the beauty of the sunsets here, not tonight.  Instead, she went inside the house and had dinner.  Mr. Callahan did not join them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now some sliver of a plot :P I have a pretty clear idea of where this story should go, but we shall see. Also, I was going to have the Pinkertons be part of the Bureau of Investigation, but I did some research and they did not come about until 1908. SO, they had to be Pinkertons. If you notice any blatant historical inaccuracies, please let me know! I enjoy this time period and want to know more about it. 
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is appreciated! I've really enjoyed talking to those who have already commented. :)


	7. A Spill of Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by the song "The Glade" from the Last of the Mohicans soundtrack. A lot of this fic was inspired by the music from that movie and the movie itself.
> 
> Also huge huge thanks to shorthairedbabe for beta'ing!!!! Thanks so so much!

Constance went to bed with worries and woke with them, too. She did not bring them to her mother. In the light of the early-morning sun, she saw clear - her mother would not believe her.

It wasn’t that Mother had no faith in Constance but that she had faith in everyone and in their intentions. She would only think Constance was worrying too much - something she had accused Constance of many times before. Constance’s anxiety was a constant thorn in Mother’s side - a manifestation of Constance’s own lack of faith.

So Constance kept her mouth shut. She was gritty-eyed and tired as she rose from the bed and helped the children dress. Downstairs, Mrs. Adams fed them a grand breakfast to send them off, and Mr. Callahan was absent once again.

“Have some coffee,” said Mrs. Adams to Constance, catching a glimpse at the darkness beneath her eyes. “It’ll brighten you up.”

Constance declined.

“Did you stay awake all night dreamin’?” Mrs. Adams asked with a smile.

She said she had not dreamed at all, but Mrs. Adams didn’t look like as if she believed it.

Theo came to her next with requests. When no one was paying them any attention, he said, “Could I write to you in Armadillo?”

“I don’t imagine we will stay there long. It’s just the closest town with a rail station,” said Constance because this is what she thought to be true at the time.

“Well… can I write you wherever you go?”

She looked at him and saw David once more. David was dark-headed, as all the Fayne children, but he’d had freckles as Theo had, and those ears that he hadn’t grown into yet and a nervous smile.

“All right,” was all she could think to say.

 

* * *

  

Mr. Callahan was waiting for them outside. He was drinking some coffee, but it didn’t seem to be doing any brightening, as Mrs. Adams had suggested. He looked miserable and bleary-eyed, but they started moving as soon as Mrs. Adams said her goodbyes.

She waved at them from her back porch, with big sweeps of her arm, until they went up over the ridge and she was lost behind it.

The sores on Constance’s feet were rubbed raw again, almost immediately, and the sun seemed to burn brighter and hotter after being hidden behind clouds for almost too long.

It seemed she was not built for this land, for this west.

They traveled quietly and slowly. Mr. Callahan had finally coaxed Faith back onto Hippolyta and by result, Grace as well. So the three children shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, wearing their stupidly big hats while Mother hummed old hymns beneath her breath. She caught Constance’s hand, laced their sweaty fingers together.

Constance gave her hand a squeeze, and Mother squeezed back, and Constance felt guilty for any bad thoughts she’d ever had towards her mother.

 

* * *

 

It had been hours of travel and silence when Mr. Callahan tapped at Constance’s shoulder.

It startled her, but he made no apologies. He pointed to the horizon, “See that?”

She followed the line of his finger, and through the heat haze, found horses--six in total. All different colors. They flicked flies with their tails, did lazy loops around cacti and between mesquite. One even rolled down into the dirt, kicking up its legs.

“Wild horses?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Have you ever tried to pet one?” asked Grace.

Mr. Callahan chuckled and stood still for a moment. Mother and Constance and Hippolyta all paused with him.

He took his hat off, wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. “I have. Tried to break a few, too.”

“And how’d that go?” asked Constance, lifting a brow.

“Been kicked a few times,” he said and gave a little grin.

Constance felt herself smile. The memory of the previous evening began to fade beneath the glare of the sun, turning brittle.

“It ain’t my preferred way of doin’ things, though. Somethin’... I don’t know--somethin’ kinda sad about it. Breakin’ their spirit.” He resettled his hat and scratched his jaw, looking at those horses. “It’s cruel, takin’ them from all this.”

Constance looked back at them, too. The one horse--a gray, splotched creature--was still rolling in the dirt.

But then the wind kicked up, brought the scent of strangers. The horses huffed and bolted, leaving only a cloud of dust and their cries behind.

 

* * *

  

They stopped for the night across from a cemetery. Oddfellow’s Rest, it was called - merely a handful of tombstones surrounded by a broken circle of fence. The girls were afraid, and Gideon was too, but desperately pretended not to be.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Callahan?” he asked.

“I ain’t too sure.” Mr. Callahan had just started the fire and was getting it to burn bright and big. Constance watched him close. Her fires never burned so grand, and it was a good thing to know--how to build a healthy fire.

“Seen some strange stuff, that’s for certain,” said Mr. Callahan. “Heard tell of this ghost lady in the swamps of Lemoyne. A frien’ a mine swore up and down he saw her.”

“Did you see her?”

“I seen more awful things in that swamp that was alive and breathin’ than not.” Mr. Callahan sat back on his heels, crouched by the fire.

“Is that where you’re from?” Mother was preparing their dinner, and more likely than not, trying to redirect the conversation to a topic that wouldn’t have the girls awake and crying all night.

“The swamps?” He laughed. “Oh, no. I only spent a lil’ time there. Weren’t a short enough stay, honestly. That air don’t agree with me much. Neither did a city like Saint Denis.”

“Saint Denis?” asked Grace. All ghosts had been forgotten. “Do they wear pretty dresses there?”

“Well, the men usually don’t.”

“Do they have fudge?” Grace was hungry-eyed now. “Or ice cream? We’ve never had either, but I’ve always wanted to try.”

“Mother won’t let us have sweets,” said Faith, very quietly.

“Well.” Mr. Callahan didn’t quite seem to know what to say. “I guess that’s for the best.”

“It is,” Mother said. “Now, leave the poor man alone and come eat a bit. It isn’t fudge, but it’ll do.”

After a dinner of half-warmed beans and bread, Constance wandered over to the cemetery. Some of the headstones had been smoothed flat by the elements. Some had crumbled away. Some were not headstones at all but rickety crosses that would not last another storm season.

She liked reading the names, the epipaths. The memories of these people.

It was more than they’d been able to give David and Father. All they had were shallow graves in a place Constance did not think she could remember to get back to.

She put the thoughts aside and kept wandering the gravestones. One of them gave her pause. This one had flowers and had been weeded--none of the other graves had been given such treatment. Constance recognized poppies and suncups and the devil’s lantern--that glowing evening flower Mr. Callahan had taught her about. They were all arranged in a little yellow pot, and though they were near dying now, they had once been beautiful.

Mabel Walters was the name on the tombstone. She was born in 1862 and died in 1870--a short life and lived a long while ago. But someone remembered her. Someone brought her flowers.

They had put flowers on Father and David’s graves, too. They would surely be dead and dust by now.

 

* * *

 

When Constance walked back to camp, the children had fallen asleep and Mother with them--all huddled near the fire and tangled in each other’s dark hair.

Only Mr. Callahan remained awake. He’d propped himself against a rock, only close enough to the fire to see to write in that book of his. “Did you see any ghosts?” he asked her as he wrote in his journal.

She smiled a little and settled down next to him, her skirts circled out around her. She could tell this surprised him--he’d looked at her quickly from the corner of his eyes. Then he went back to scratching at his journal.

“I’m sorry for being so accusatory the other evening,” she said, plucking at a hole at the edge of her right sleeve.

He laughed quietly and snapped his journal shut. “Well,” he said, “you weren’t exactly wrong.”

When she glanced over at him, he realized the question in her eyes and he nodded once, looking back at the fire. He was quiet for a long time or - it seemed like a long time. With the silence between them, the night sounds were loud and the air was full of life, breaths and sighs and song.

Then, Mr. Callahan spoke and those other sounds quieted. “I did know Bill. Long time ago now, it seems. It was ‘fore he became… what he is now.”

“Before he became a criminal?”

Mr. Callahan gave a sly smile, cut his eyes back to her. “No. I reckon he was always a criminal. Just called hisself somethin’ different. He weren’t as… heartless, I guess - back then.”

“He was a friend?”

“Not hardly. But… he weren’t so bad, then. Just kind of a big angry fool--not too unlike me, I guess. I always felt a bit sorry for him. But not now.”

“What changed?”

“Him or me?” he asked, with another one of those good-humored smiles. “I reckon we both changed, honestly. Times changed, then we changed with ‘em. Had no real choice ‘bout it.”

Constance thought on this as a weak breeze blew. It brought with it some grit, and she blinked the sand out of her eyes. “I suppose that’s the mark of a strength in a person, isn’t it? There are things that happen to you--changes you cannot control--and then there are ways you adapt to them.”

“Not sure if it makes you strong or just a survivor,” said Mr. Callahan, after he’d thought on it a moment.

“Are the two not the same?”

He was quiet again, for such a stretch that it would have made her nervous had it not been him. Then he nodded, as if he’d made peace with his words and then he spoke them: “Survivin’ requires strength but sometimes, it requires ruthlessness too. Strength… well, I ain’t sure what it requires really. I just know I spent my whole life ‘round survivors. And some of ‘em were strong but some of ‘em were yellow--weak, through and through.”

This seemed to be all he would say on the matter. He opened his journal again and moved his pencil with quick strokes. She wondered if he was drawing instead of writing, but she was too shy to peep over and see.

Instead, she listened to the fire and the rustle of rabbits in the brush, the far-off, anguished howl of coyotes. She thought about change and changing. Surviving.

“Will you teach me how to hunt?” she asked.

He looked up, startled. She expected him to question it. But he only nodded. “Sure.”

It was just that easy.

She nodded and looked away again. He started back to his journaling. She felt him in a strange way - his movements, his warmth. They were not touching, and she was not even looking at him - but she knew his presence.

They were quiet for a moment. She looked to the sky and saw a bright spill of stars, as if someone had dropped a cup-full. There was purple light and clouds all around but no stirrings of storm--that had passed for the moment, it seemed.

Mr. Callahan caught her staring up at the heavens and he pointed. He said, “You see that big star? The one that’s so bright?”

She followed his finger and nodded. “Yes.”

“That’s the North Star. It’s how you navigate at night. When you’re facin’ it, your right is east and your left is west.”

She nodded again.

This was the first of many things he would teach her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a bit longer! Updates might become just a bit more sparse as I have some work-related things I'll be doing over the next month. I hope to update at least once every 7-10 days, though!
> 
> Next chapter will see them FINALLY getting to Armadillo, where things will move a bit faster. Hopefully. :p


	8. The Weight and Value of Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to shorthairedbabe once again for betaing! <3

He woke before the rest of them, before the sun. The sky still held faint stars, the ones he’d taught the girl about the night before when they’d burned bright.

She was sleeping with her face turned towards him, but he knew it didn’t mean nothing.

Today, they’d make it into Armadillo. They’d get there by noon, if they didn’t take many stops.

It made him feel uneasy, but he’d been uneasy for a while now. Bill, the Pinkertons, the storms, that girl and the way she looked at him sometimes, like she knew too much - he had many reasons to be nervous. He couldn’t pick just one.

Slowly, the strange little family blinked awake. The kids were real groggy as he hauled them up and settled them on Hippolyta. He waited for a moment, to make sure they wouldn’t fall out of the saddle.

Then they went to walking again except this time, the girl walked near him.

He began pointing out the plants they passed on the trail. He told her their names and what they did - if they’d make you sick or give you a rash, if they’d soothe an upset stomach or calm a bee sting.

He had no idea why he kept rambling on, but she simply nodded, her brows pushed together, like she was thinking real hard on what he was saying, like she was filing it all away.

Finally, she said, “You should have been a botanist after all.” And then she treated him with a rare smile.

He just laughed, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well—I shoulda been a lotta things ‘sides what I was. But I reckon it’s too late for any of that now.”

“You speak as if you’re already dead and in the ground.”

“Maybe I should be,” he said but he smiled to make a joke out of it.

She didn’t smile back.

 

* * *

 

He fished out a wad of bills from his satchel when they drew near Armadillo, caught the mother while the children were distracted by the sight of the town on the horizon.

“Here,” he said.

“Oh no, Mr. Callahan.” Mrs. Fayne carefully folded his fingers back over the money. She had a warm, round face - no hard edges - and a smile that made her eyes look real teary, like she was just about ready to cry. “You’ve done enough for us.”

“You’ll need this, ma’am. You and your kids - ”

“Faith will see us through.”

Arthur sighed, trying not to get impatient. “Ma’am, faith don’t feed you.”

She disagreed, he could tell, but she didn’t argue, just smiled again. The evidence of many laughs laid in the cracks that fanned around her mouth. But she looked sad now. She said, “Keep your money, Mr. Callahan.”

She walked back towards her children, and Arthur felt eyes on him. He knew it was Constance, knew she’d caught him trying to give money. He looked at her, and she looked back. She was not at all like the mother. Tall and slim, olive skinned and dark-eyed. She had a serious disposition, and it looked as if a scowl was never far off on her face. But she did not look cruel. She looked iron-willed.

That night she’d talked about strength and surviving, he’d wanted to tell her he knew the look of strength in people. He’d wanted to tell her she had it.

But then he’d thought that was an awful stupid thing to say to someone so he’d kept his mouth shut.

He led them on into Armadillo without incident. The smoke from burning bodies had only just cleared a month earlier, and there were still ashy spots on the streets. Coughs lingering in the stale air.

The children looked as discouraged as Arthur felt. He felt real sorry for them, too, all their hopes pinned on this pathetic town.

He told Mrs. Fayne she could try for work at the doctor’s. He said the boarding house was still open, a safe enough place to stay. He tried to give her some money again, but she wouldn’t allow it and asked instead where she might sell some of the valuables she had left.

He told her, and she went where he directed, those kids following her dutifully. He made his way to the boarding house and paid for their room himself, a week’s stay.

 

* * *

 

When he came to town, he stayed in the saloon, in the room directly above the bar. It had ripped wallpaper and two stained beds - but one was less stained than the other. They both had lumps, though.

It was depressing - the room, the saloon, Armadillo - so it all suited him just fine.

Sometimes, out in nature, things were too pretty. The sun would set just right and the horizon would catch flame and take his breath, and he felt undeserving of it all.

So back to Armadillo he would go, to be around folks as miserable as him. To remind himself life weren’t so pretty.

By the time he got to the saloon, it was too early and too hot to sleep. So he parked himself by the bar and the barman, Sneaky was his name, sat out a bottle of whiskey without being told.

Arthur liked getting drunk here, in this empty saloon. The piano player had died in the last outbreak along with most of the patrons. So for music they had wind whistling through loose boards, the creak of the floor, the clink of dirty glasses. Only a few people were left alive to drink, so he knew all the faces that wandered in, dirty and dusty and tired.

It was all very grim and getting drunk made it even more grim, and that suited Arthur fine, too.

Tonight, though, he poured himself a shot and thought of the little Fayne family. This town would not suit them, surely. Armadillo was not for the likes of people like that - hopeful, gentle, kind people. The kids were sweet. The mother was sincere in a way that almost embarrassed Arthur. And that eldest daughter was quiet and strangest of all, the kind of strange that inspired him to put pencil to paper and try to capture it in a drawing.

Instead, he poured himself another drink.

“You got a letter,” said Sneaky and he slid a beat-up envelope Arthur’s way.

Arthur took one glance at the handwriting and knew it was from Sadie. “Obliged,” said Arthur and put the letter into his satchel, next to seven other unopened envelopes.

“You sure get a lot of mail for a feller who don’t send any.”

Arthur took a long time to look up from his shot glass, into Sneaky’s red-rimmed eyes. Perhaps the name Sneaky had inspired him to adopt a shifty gaze. Or perhaps the shifty gaze had come first, then the nickname followed. Arthur wasn’t sure, but he didn’t like it whatever the case was.

“Why you so interested in my correspondances?” asked Arthur.

“I ain’t.” Sneaky coughed, a real wet-sounding cough, and then wandered away, all bones and sun-leathered skin.

Arthur took another drink. Then another. He decided he might as well finish the whole bottle so that’s what he did.

The sun went down, and a few of the professional drunks came in - hard fools who liked picking fights. Arthur was trying to stay clean, away from any bloodshed, so he took this as his cue to go up to his room.

He sat on the mattress for a long time - the less stained one - and he listened. To the voices below, the wind outside. Sand hitting against the windows. Night sounds.

He tried to sleep, then, but he was too drunk for sleep.

He thought of that damned family again and then thought of what it was to have a family, to have people moving with you through the miseries of life. Instead of facing them alone.

It was selfish, he decided, but it sure was less lonesome.

Then he sat up and dug through his satchel, found the letters. Three from John, four from Sadie, and one from Charles. They hadn’t used those names, of course, but the truth was in the handwriting. Sadie’s neat, almost delicate penmanship, which had always amused Arthur. Charles’s blocky, abrupt hand. John’s messy scrawl, the scrawl that held a lot of history. He’d seen that scrawl formed under the tutiliege of Hosea and Dutch.

He couldn’t bring himself to open them, so he put them back up.

It was too hot still. The upper floor caught all the heat of the day, and it stayed sweltering like an oven on until the early morning. Then the cycle would begin again.

So Arthur got to his feet and went outside. Desert air at night was pure and cool, and he drank it in, leaning against the saloon’s porch and looking up at the stars.

The stars reminded him of things. Everything reminded him of something, and how tiring that was.

“Mr. Callahan?”

He did not turn, at first. He was too drunk to remember that was his name now, at least to these people. But then his whiskey-addled brain caught up, and he looked over to see Constance.

She’d taken a proper bath because he smelled rose water on her, even with the three feet she kept between them. When he’d first seen her, she’d been dirty. But then she’d gone to the river and cleaned herself up and he couldn’t really remember what she’d looked like dirty. She was the kind of girl who always looked clean, even in memories.

“Miss Fayne,” he said, trying not to seem too drunk.

“Mother wanted me to give you this.” She held something out to him in a tightly clenched fist. “As a thank you. For helping us on the road and for the room.”

“I-I don’t need any thanks. ‘Sides, you all need to keep what you got. You’ll need it.”

She kept her arm extended. There was a little scowl threatening between her brows. “Please, sir. She wants you to have it. She won’t be dissuaded.”

Arthur sighed and held out his own hand, opened his palm to receive the gift. It was a pocket watch, not a very nice one, but worth a little money nonetheless. He inspected it in the light of the full moon, popped it open. There was no inscription, but there was something attached to it, some kind of sentiment. It was warm from the girl’s hand.

“It was my father’s,” she said very quietly.

“I couldn’t take this.”

“She wants - we want you to have it. We have his memory. We don’t need his watch.”

“Yes, you do. You could sell it if you don’t want to keep it.”

“She’s already sold what we had left. We try not to stay attached to the material, Mr. Callahan. In the end, they’re all just things.”

Arthur thought of his satchel, all the things he carried within it. Pictures, mostly, but a few keepsakes, too. Maybe he would be better off without them, without the weight of them on his shoulder.

But maybe he needed that weight, too.

He shook his head, held out the watch. “I ain’t takin’ it. I can’t. If you don’t take it back now, I’ll just bring it to the boarding house tomorrow.”

Her scowl returned, but she opened her hand to receive the watch. She was careful not to touch him or let him touch her, he noticed, and he had a strong impulse to grab her wrist, hold it and push the watch back into her palm. But of course he didn’t do this. He just let it drop into her hold.

She stared at it for a moment. He was afraid she might cry, maybe thinking of her father, maybe overcome with emotion. But her face stayed cool and smooth. Her fingers folded over the watch neatly and she looked up at Arthur. “My mother will most likely force it upon you herself tomorrow.”

“Then tell her I took it. Keep it yourself.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I won’t lie.”

“Don’t… lie. Just don’t tell her nothin’. She’ll assume I took it ‘less you say otherwise. And I won’t spoil the charade.”

She thought on this, he could tell. Her gaze wandered down the street, her lips pressing together. Then, she looked at him again. Maybe a little softer. The way she’d looked at him the night previous, when there’d been nothing but stars around them. “Thank you,” she said.

“Ain’t no need to thank me.”

“Yes, there is.” She wasn’t overly sentimental, like her mother. He could see her struggling with making her gratitude known, which in Arthur’s opinion, made it all the more valuable. “Have a good evening,” she said.

He just nodded to her, watched as she turned and walked back to the boarding house. She cast no coy looks over her shoulder but kept her back straight and her steps measured. She disappeared inside without another glance, but he kept watching, even after the door had shut behind her and he knew he wouldn’t see her again for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on Chapter 9 now, and it's coming fairly quickly so hopefully I'll be able to update a few more times before I go on vacation... and then get my wisdom teeth removed. Bleh. So if there's a pause in updates around the end of the month, this is why :)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is reading and commenting. Y'all are so insightful, and it's honestly been a delight to interact with everyone. xx


	9. Fever West

Her father used to say that time was curious. He said you never had enough or you had too much, one or the other.

That is what she thought of when she slipped his watch into her dress pocket and started back for the boarding house. She wondered if her father had ever thought he had too much time. For her, when she was with him, it seemed she never had enough. There would always be someone or something trying to drag him away from her: her siblings, all vying for his attention or the congregation, equally as desperate and helpless as the children.

So Constance had learned to hold time with him dear, even before she realized how little she would have of it.

She went into the boarding house and made the climb up to the room Mr. Callahan had bought them. It was at the very top of the stairs, a small room thick with desert dust and heat. She found her siblings asleep on top of the bedcovers, sweating and dreaming but peaceful in a real bed.

Her mother sat by the light of a candle, trying to read the bible and fight off sleep. She asked Constance if Mr. Callahan had liked the watch, and Constance merely shrugged. Her mother was too tired to press for more.

Mother rested her head back against the wall, her eyes drifting shut, and this gave Constance the confidence to ask what she had been holding in and saving up for. They had a little money, now, since her mother had sold off the few things they had left, so Constance asked if they could afford train passage back home. To Pennsylvania.

“Oh, darling.” Mother’s eyes opened once more, landed on her with sorrow. “That is no longer our home. There’s nothing there for us. We sold the house, our land, our things.”

“But we know people there. You have friends there. The old church folk-”

“We were led out west, angel. Out west is where we will stay.”

The damned west again. The idea of it was like a sickness, and once you had it, it wouldn’t be shaken. How many people had fallen victim to it - the golden west where the sun burned brighter and opportunities abounded.

“God will provide,” her mother said, reaching over to pat Constance’s arm. “He has already. He sent us Mr. Callahan. He has guided us this far.”

Constance went quiet. She felt angry - and guilty for her anger.

“I know you think I’m foolish,” said her mother after a long time. “Maybe I am. I feel… well, I feel I am still out in that desert, wandering. I dream that I’ve lost you and the children, too, and I am alone and dry-mouthed and dying. But I cannot leave this place now. Not now that your father and brother are buried here. Not now that your father gave his life in trying to get here. I’m making this out to be more godly than it is, perhaps. Perhaps it’s just my stubbornness that won’t allow me to move again. My stubbornness and also my fear. I cannot risk losing any more of you in travel. I’m not sure I could bear another loss.”

They sat silently after this and listened to the children breathing, all separate and steady rhythms. They listened to the creak of floorboards expanding, to the wind outside, the sand brushing against glass and wood.

Finally, Constance spoke again. She pulled her hand from her pocket and presented the watch. “He wouldn’t take it.”

Her mother smiled, closed Constance’s fingers around the watch once more. “I know,” Mother said. “I saw from the window.”

 

* * *

 

The night had let her worries settle. They became part of her, and there was nothing to do but keep carrying them.

She woke knowing what she would do. As Mother headed for the doctor’s in search of work, she turned to the children and said, “Stay in this room.”

The three of them sat on the bed, with sleep-tangled hair, but Gideon looked at her sharp. “Where are you going?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Constance did her hair up fast, pinning the strands that tried to fall free. “You just stay here, look after your sisters.”

This dimmed his suspicion and puffed him up with pride. He looked at Grace, who was less impressed.

“He isn’t in charge, though - right, sister?”

“I’m the oldest,” said Gideon.

“So? I’m the smartest.”

“Nu-uh!”

This started a tussle, and Faith quickly hopped off the bed lest she get caught in the middle of it.

Constance looked at her and said, “You’re in charge. Don’t let them out of this room.”

Faith nodded like it was a burden she’d simply have to bear.

 

* * *

 

Constance had never been inside a saloon once in all her life so far. She had ideas about what they must be like, ideas formed from snippets of whispered conversation and sermons on the evil of drink, gambling, and lust.

She did not want to go inside.

She lingered out in the dusty street, until her hair was sandy and her eyes stung, and she hoped to see a glimpse of Mr. Callahan. It had been pure luck the night previous, him standing outside and looking at the stars.

She was not so lucky again, and eventually, she hiked her skirts and pushed open the swing doors.

It was not at all the colorful and smoky den of sin she was expecting but rather a silent room with warped floorboards and dusty rugs. There were only a few patrons, all men with sun leathered faces and eyes that went straight for Constance and settled there, knowing she did not belong.

She only tried to ignore them as she walked to the bar. The floorboards seemed a bit unsteady beneath her feet, giving with each step she took. They creaked loud, no matter how easy she stepped. “Is Mr. Callahan in?” she asked the bartender.

He was a stretch of a man, pulled so tall and thin that he curved in the middle. His fingers were knobby, scrubbing at a murky glass. “He’s upstairs, little lady. Room 201.”

“Could you call him for me?” she asked.

The barman laughed and showed a set of rotten teeth. “Go call him yourself.”

All the men watched as she went up the stairs and towards Mr. Callahan’s room. They were quiet and listening as she knocked against his door. She could feel them staring still.

It took Mr. Callahan a very long time to answer, and when he did, he only opened the door a crack, his hair messy and his eyes barely open. She saw the glimpse of his bare shoulder, pale and scarred, and it made her blush.

“What?” he asked. His tone was not nasty but it was gruff, gravelly from sleep.

She was very aware of all the ears below, straining to hear. It made her desperate for privacy, even if that privacy was Mr. Callahan’s room. “May I please come in?”

Mr. Callahan blinked sleep from his eyes a few times. He sighed. “Gimme a minute.” The door slammed on her face. She heard him rustling around on the other side, and she waited, twisting her fingers, until he opened the door again and ushered her inside.

It was a sad and stale room, thick with heat. There was a trunk by one of the beds, but no pictures, no personal belongings, anywhere else in the room.

Mr. Callahan was pulling suspenders up over his union suit. His feet were bare, and this struck her as funny. He seemed aseemed like a man who always wore boots, even in his sleep, though she knew this was a silly notion.

“What is it?” he asked, rubbing at his eye. “It really ain’t proper for you to be in here, girl.”

Her face burned with an unrelenting flush. “You said you were going to teach me how to hunt.”

“I did.” He nodded and scratched his jaw. His beard was longer than it had been when she first saw him. It had grown out to look soft instead of prickly. “And I suppose you wanna hold me to that promise.”

“I do.”

He gave a brief smile that was tied to a sigh. Then he walked over to his bed and sat down, and he noticed what this did to her nerves. She couldn’t tell if he looked amused or not. He only said, “Why you wanna know how to hunt, anyway?”

“It’s a valuable skill.”

“Yes, but you don’t really seem the type to wanna get your hands dirty.”

“I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, Mr. Callahan. I only have to wash them after.”

He laughed and shook his head. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “All right, then. You got your pa’s rifle?”

“My mother has it.”

“Well, you might wanna go collect it, darlin’, as it’s hard to hunt without a weapon.”

She looked away from him, furiously embarrassed. “I… well, I’d rather learn on your guns.”

“Best to learn with your own, I’d say. Unless of course your momma don’t know ‘bout your ambitions to be the next Annie Oakley.” He sounded amused.

Constance thought of what her mother would do if she knew Constance was here, asking to learn to shoot and hunt. Asking a man in the privacy of his room.

“She doesn’t know,” said Constance and she only felt a little guilty.

Mr. Callahan really was amused, now. “And what you plannin’ on doin’ if you shoot somethin’ and bring it home?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Sure.” He laughed but found a pair of boots and pulled them on. His hat came next.  A rifle he slung across his back. Then, finally, his gunbelt - which he stood up to fasten around his waist. The motion was practiced and easy, something he’d done a thousand times or maybe more.

She’d never known a man to wear guns on his hips - not like Mr. Callahan’s. Two white handled pistols, like pieces of bone jutting out from the holsters.

When he’d secured the belt, he looked up at her.

The first time their eyes met, at the mouth of that cave all those days ago now, it had struck a strange new feeling through her. She was touched by that same sensation now, something that unsteadied her - though it was no longer new.

He kind of smiled at her, then. It was warm, a bit comforting. It should have soothed her, but it did not.

“After you,” he said, nodding towards the door.

She nodded back and quickly took her leave.

She felt the eyes in the saloon slip to her more subtly, on the way down the steps, with Mr. Callahan behind her. But one man still got up his nerve and said something beneath his breath, something Constance couldn’t hear.

Mr. Callahan heard, though. “Why don’t you shut your goddamn filthy mouth?” he asked and it was almost casual the way he slipped menace into his tone.

The man shut up fast, and everyone’s eyes went elsewhere.

Mr. Callahan pushed Constance out of the saloon, and she felt blinded in the sunlight outside, wobbly in the heat.

“Sorry for… ah, for my language,” said Mr. Callahan, shifting his hat forward to hide from the sun. He sounded like a different man again, softer. She wondered what was easier for him - to sound this way or to sound hard. Both seemed natural.

“It’s all right.”

“You ought not go in there, if I ain’t around.”

“I won’t.”

He nodded once, looked away from her. “C’mon, then. Follow me. We’ll go south towards-”

“Well, ain’t you a hard man to track down.”

The voice surprised them both, and they turned towards it, squinting against sunlight and sand. From the corner of her eye, Constance saw Mr. Callahan settling his hands at those guns he wore.

The voice belonged to one of those western myths brought to life - a woman in pants. She wore a hat and coat, too, and so many guns Constance couldn’t count them all. She walked right up to Mr. Callahan and pulled him into a hug, smacking his back hard enough to raise dust.

“You sure as hell are a sight for sore eyes,” she said.

More shocking still, Mr. Callahan hugged her back. When they parted, he was smiling a little. “Mrs. Adler. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was just makin’ sure you weren’t dead. Where the hell have you been, anyway?” she asked, resting her hands on her hips. “You ain’t answered any of my letters. Or John’s.”

“John?”

“Yeah. I stopped by and saw them. They’re in goddamn Canada, at the moment, if you can believe it. The Yukon. Course, you’d know that had you read any of his letters -”

“You came out all this way to tell me you and John are riled I ain’t been answerin’ your letters, then - is that it?”

“No. I came to make sure you wasn’t dead. And to ask a favor if you was still kickin’.”

They both paused at this, seemed to remember Constance. They looked over at her, and Constance studied them, side-by-side. Mrs. Adler was much smaller than Mr. Callahan, soft in places he was not, with a fair braid curved over her shoulder. They shared no colors, no similar shape in bone structure, but they were alike, too, in a way Constance couldn’t understand.

“Oh, ah - this is Miss Fayne,” Mr. Callahan said. “Miss Fayne, this is Mrs. Adler.”

Mrs. Adler tilted her hat back to get a better look at Constance. Then she smiled. This was a bit like Mr. Callahan, too, how transformative that smile was. “How do you do, Miss Fayne?”

“Fine, thank you. And you?”

“Oh, I’m just peachy.” She looked back to Mr. Callahan, a quirk to her brow. “I suppose I’m interruptin’ somethin’.”

Mr. Callahan rubbed the back of his neck and hid fully behind his hat. “Ah, no. Just takin’ Miss Fayne here out to shoot. She wants to learn to hunt.”

“Smart girl.” Mrs. Adler rested her hands on her hips again, still staring at Mr. Callahan though he was looking only at the dirt. “Well, I reckon we can talk later, Arthur. Assumin’ you don’t disappear again.”

This brought his gaze back to Mrs. Adler, brought a scowl too. “I didn’t disappear before. You found me, didn’t you?”

“After runnin’ all over the whole goddamn state trackin’ you, sure.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mrs. Adler.”

A grin slipped over Mrs. Adler’s face and she chuckled, elbowing him. “I’ll be waitin’ in the saloon when you get back.”

“Try to stay out of trouble, Sadie. Please,” he said, giving her a weighty look.

“Always do, Arthur.” She looked at Constance, rolled her eyes. “Honestly.” Then she marched herself into the saloon, without a backwards look.

Constance wondered if the men would stare at her, too. If they’d dare to say something foul. But then Mrs. Adler didn’t seem the type to suffer fools. She had those guns on her hips, same as Mr. Callahan.

She was quite something, thought Constance.

“Miss Fayne?”

Constance’s eyes flickered back to Mr. Callahan. He was wiping sweat from his mouth, staring at a horse that was hitched near the rail station. It was a pretty creature, uniquely colored and thick-legged. He looked at it like he knew it, and she wondered if it was Mrs. Adler’s.

“Yes?” she asked.

His gaze shifted back to her. His eyes were very blue in the sunlight, a bit sad and distant, and she wondered what it was in him that made her so observant.

“You wantin’ to walk or ride somewhere?” he asked her, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt and looking away.

“I’d much rather walk.”

This made him laugh a bit and nod. He glanced up at the sky, squinted, and seemed to think for a moment. Then he said, “Well, let’s get goin’ ‘fore it gets much later.”

Constance spared one last look at the saloon. The doors were still swaying slightly from Mrs. Adler’s entrance. Constance wondered about those pants and what it’d be like to wear a pair herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why it keeps putting two end notes at the end of the chapters. What am I doing wrong here?
> 
> Anyway, sorry this chapter was a little delayed. I had most of it written a while ago but then realized it wasn't working. So I took shorthairedbabe's advice (who beta'd again - thank you!) and took some time off from it. Then reworked it. It's put me a bit behind schedule, though. I probably won't update again for another week or so, as I'm leaving town on Thursday. And taking a train ride, which I've never done before and may or may not have been prompted by RDR.
> 
> xx


	10. Ghosts on the Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know very little about guns. What I do know came from RDR and shooting BBs at cans when I was ten. Please take Arthur's "instructions" in this chapter with a grain of salt.

It felt strange, walking without her family, without all those footsteps falling in time with hers.

Mr. Callahan moved faster when he wasn’t leading Hippolyta. It was hard to keep up with him, in all her skirts. Constance thought of Mrs. Adler and how it must be easier to keep pace with long-legged men if you wore pants.

“We’ll go over to Riley’s Charge.” Mr. Callahan paused, a few feet ahead of her, to let her catch up.

“There’s game there?” she asked, sweating. She’d forgotten her hat and had to squint in the sunlight to see him. She moved close enough so that he would blot out the light.

“Game of the glass variety - bottles, to be exact.”

“Bottles?”

“Gotta start somewhere.” He began walking again, and she could tell he was trying to go slow - so that she could keep up. “We’ll start you on the bottles. Then we’ll graduate to rabbits. It’s how I was taught.”

“Who taught you?”

“My old man,” he said. “He was a rotten bastard but I guess he weren’t entirely useless. Taught me to drink and play cards, too.”

She didn’t know quite what to say. Her father had taught her the bible. He’d taught her numbers and letters, and when she’d been little, he had read to her every night. Sometimes faithful stories and sometimes magical ones. Sometimes both so that the lines got blurred and she couldn’t remember if the burning bush had been in the bible or fairy tales.

He’d said there was magic in God and magic in her, too. It wasn’t until she was older that she realized he’d been lying about the latter. That was his only sin.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Mr. Callahan.

“Ah, it ain’t nothin’ to be sorry over.” He rubbed the back of his neck, started walking a bit too fast again. He wouldn’t look over at her. “He’s been dead a long time now.”

They were quiet after that.

Riley’s Charge was a quiet place, too, filled full with memory. Only one shack still stood, nothing but burnt-out bones. Canons that had been too heavy to move had been left to rot and rust. In the dirt, there were pieces of broken wood and old glass rubbed smooth by the weather, and Constance had to take care not trip.

Mr. Callahan walked around quickly, finding any bottles he could that weren’t shattered. There were still slips of old tents hanging on poles, fluttering in a dry breeze, and he moved between them like he was moving between ghosts.

“What was this place?” Constance asked. She squinted in the distance, saw the remains of another jagged shack very far off. The horizons all around them seemed to be lined with forgotten things.

“Old battleground from the Mexican-American War,” he replied, still bottle-hunting.

She started to hunt with him. It did not take long before they had ten bottles lined up on old sandbags, and Mr. Callahan was pulling the gun off his back, telling her about it.

“A varmint rifle. Good for rabbits, raccoons, and so forth. Ain’t good for anythin’ big you wanna bring down, so don’t go pickin’ a fight with a grizzly ‘less you can hit it square in the eye.”

Constance had to laugh at this. The idea of her picking a fight with a bear.

Mr. Callahan tried at first just to talk her through how to hold the gun, but there were too many things to remember - breathing, not tensing but holding firm, never putting your finger on the trigger unless you were willing to pull, how to hold your feet, how to aim.

So then he stood behind her, gently settled his hands on her shoulders, and his voice was closer than it ever had been before. “Just relax. You tense up and your shot’ll go wide. It’s gonna kick, so just be ready and move with it.”

Constance nodded. Her neck felt hot, of all things. Her ears, too.

“Keep your back straight,” he said. He turned his face to look at her, his nose very nearly brushing her temple. Then his breath was against her cheek, hotter than desert sun. “You got your target in sight?”

She squinted one eye, found the green bottle she wanted to obliterate, and nodded.

One of his hands slid down her shoulder, across the length of her arm. He repositioned her hold on the gun as he went. Then he put her finger to the trigger. “Pull it slow, on empty lungs. Remember?”

She nodded again, kind of blurry feeling. She wasn’t sure she saw the bottle anymore, couldn’t really remember what he’d just said about breathing.

He squeezed her shoulder, and it did something to her.

For a moment, he pressed into her - his nose in her hair, his lips at her temple. It wasn’t a kiss. Maybe it wasn’t anything but an accident. It all happened so fast, and there was so much heat shining down that she wasn’t thinking straight and she pulled the trigger at just that moment, snatched at it like he said not to and inhaled when he’d said to exhale.

The shot missed by a mile, and the gun jerked upwards in her arm. The crack was deafening, echoing around the empty air.

“Shit.” 

The word slipped out of her, and it made Mr. Callahan laugh. He’d already let loose of her, and then he stumbled into her view, smacking his leg and raising dust clouds.

“Shit indeed,” he said. His eyes were crinkled again. This was the first time she remembered seeing him really laugh. “Did everythin’ I told you not to, didn’t you?”

“It was your fault,” she replied. “You… startled me.”

He just rolled his eyes and nodded, and she began to doubt her memory, the feel of his lips barely brushing against her skin.

“Why don’t you just try again?” His voice was nothing but a drawl as he grabbed his belt, nodded towards the bottles.

“Fine,” she said, very determined now.

Her next shot hit the target just fine, as did the four following. It didn’t seem so hard, once she got used to the rifle’s jump and crack. It was pretty straightforward, really - aim and shoot.

By the end of it all, her arm was a little sore but all the bottles she’d aimed at were shattered good and proper, and Mr. Callahan was squinting at the fallen targets like he didn’t quite believe it.

He looked at her. “You ain’t never shot before?”

“No, sir.”

“Never once?”

She shook her head.

This made him whistle low and then smile. “Well, I’ll be damned. Black Belle.”

She didn’t know who Black Belle was, but it sounded like a compliment. She blushed thoroughly and smiled back.

A gust of wind blew past, bringing sand and storm. Mr. Callahan noticed it first and nodded up at the sky, pointed out the oncoming clouds. He seemed to have a sense about this kind of thing.

“Looks like it’ll be bad. We should prolly get back,” he said. “Save the rabbits for tomorrow.”

Constance was disappointed. She tried not to dwell on why, but she didn’t think it had much to do with the rabbits.

He stood staring at the sky for a moment, his hands on his hips, near those guns. She wasn’t sure why she was so fascinated by them. Maybe it was because they were so pearly white, and up close, she could see a little gold detailing. Maybe it was because they didn’t seem to suit him much. His clothes were worn, in desperate need of stitching. Faded by sun. His boots were scuffed, his spurs left with no shine at all. The guns certainly stood out by comparison.

“What about those pistols?” she asked before he got moving.

He looked over at her, a little wary. “What about them?”

“Are they easy to shoot?”

“Ain’t hard at all,” he said. “‘Specially not for a crack shot such as yourself.”

She smiled and wished she was clever so that she might say something clever. All she could manage was, “Could you show me?”

He pushed his hat up to get a better read on her. His eyes were narrowed ever so slightly. “Ain’t much good to hunt with.”

“I’d just like to know, I guess. It’s a valuable skill - shooting.”

This made him laugh, but it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t an altogether happy sound. “Sure, if you wanna kill somethin’.” But then he unholstered one of the pistols, shot all the remaining bottles - five in total - in the span of a few jolted heartbeats.

Constance had never seen much shooting. She’d heard the crack of shots in the woods near their home, men hunting. Her father had never been much for it.

But she knew Mr. Callahan was skilled - to be so quick and so accurate. He must have been. It was quite something.

“You’re very good,” she said.

Mr. Callahan laughed, kicked at the dirt and dipped his head. It was endearing, almost boyish. He re-holstered the gun with a lazy twirl around his finger, like an old habit - not at all for show. “‘Bout the only thing I’m good at, I fear. But shootin’ bottles is one thing. It’s a different story when your target’s movin’. When it’s shootin’ back.”

The words hung still and hot in the air between them. He would not look at her, and she felt this was a confession of sorts. She’d been raised to know a confession when she heard one.

“Were you a gunfighter?” she asked.

This drew his gaze to her, only for a moment. Then he looked at the horizon, squinted at the encroaching clouds. “No. Nothin’ quite so notable.”

It was improper, her next question, but it seemed he wanted her to ask it. So she said, “An outlaw, then?”

His eyes settled on her again and this time did not stray. Beneath the brim of his hat, against the tan of skin, those eyes were steady blue. “That’s what we called ourselves. I ain’t sure anymore.”

“What were you?”

“Criminals.” He grabbed his belt, kicked the earth again. His eyes finally wandered, back to the horizon. “Thieves and killers, mostly. We just pretended to be somethin’ else.”

Perhaps the quiet that followed should have unnerved her. His confession, his size, his talent with a gun - it should have frightened her. But she felt as still and calm as one of the lakes back home, rippleless and cool.

“So you aren’t a bounty hunter.”

He scratched at his jaw. “Well, I done some bounty huntin’, sure. It just ain’t all I’ve done.”

“Was Mrs. Adler an outlaw, too?”

He nodded his head once, and his head dipped low again. But she could see the small smile that curved his lips. “She was.”

“Is she… is she your woman?”

“Sadie?” He barked a laugh. “Oh, no. Mrs. Adler ain’t anyone’s - make no mistake about that.”

Constance felt the last rays of sun before a storm burned brightest, and they burned her now. Her cheeks pinkened.

“What about you?” asked Mr. Callahan. He was looking at her very close, peering at her from beneath that hat. “Why ain’t you spoken for?”

This made her blush darker. “I… I don’t always know what to say, I guess. Most think me strange and stupid, I suppose.”

It was a lot of truth and words all at once. She felt silly for sharing so much, so she looked away, to the ground.

Mr. Callahan said, “Well, you ain’t neither of those things,” and he said it with such sincerity and quietness that she forgot to be shy and met his gaze again. They stood there, looking at each other, as the light around them got darker and softer, and it felt like a very long time.

But really, it had only been a few seconds and then Mr. Callahan kind of chuckled and looked down, broke the spell.

“Guess we best get you back to town,” he said.

“Yes,” was all she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIIII! Sorry it's been so long. I do have the next chapter written, though - it might just be a few more days, as I have to fix some minor plot things that were influenced by my writing of Chapter 12. Also wisdom teeth are coming out on Monday. I don't know how much this will slow me down! :) Thanks for the patience! xx


	11. Ghosts in a Saloon

He didn’t get the girl back home before the rains came. They’d tried to run at the first few drops, but the storm moved faster, caught up to them in the span of a few breaths, and had them soaked. Over the roll of thunder, he heard the girl laugh - a rare sound.

When he glanced at her, she was smiling. The water had pulled loose some strands of hair and they stuck to her cheeks, caught in her lashes. She looked her age, then, just a girl really. He forgot sometimes with that old way she looked at him, but now he remembered. There was innocence still - in those eyes.

When they got back to Armadillo, he walked her right up the boarding house, but she didn’t seem particularly eager to get out of the rain, to go inside.

“You’ll teach me to hunt rabbits tomorrow - if the weather permits,” she said.

He nodded once.

“You promise?”

He laughed but it sounded uneasy in his own ears. “Sure.”

“Meet me behind the boarding house after six o’clock. If my mother stays in tomorrow, I’ll find a way to excuse myself.” She picked up her skirts and climbed onto the porch. Then she paused. There was a waterfall running off the edge of the porch, a wavering wall between them, and through it, she looked right at him.

It was that look that sent him a little silly sometimes.

“Thank you, Mr. Callahan,” she said.

“Arthur,” he said, feeling tired and old. “Just… just call me Arthur.”

He couldn’t tell what she thought of this, but she nodded once and said, “Arthur.” Then she was gone, out of this terrible weather.

He was already soaked through, so he took a moment to stare after her.

He should have said her name back.

 _Constance_. It suited her.

The rain started coming down a bit harder, and he thought he looked like a real fool, standing out in it, so he stopped looking after the girl and jogged towards the saloon. The street was already churned to mud, and it made a real mess of his boots. He tracked the muck into bar and earned a glare from Sneaky.

It was easy enough to spot Sadie. She’d picked herself a table by a window and faced out towards the door. He knew she saw him coming, but she didn’t act like it, only kept her eyes on the rain outside.

“Mrs. Adler,” he said, putting his hat on the table. “You stayin’ out of trouble?”

“Yes, Arthur.” She rolled her eyes, kicked a chair towards him. “Take a load off.”

He settled in, glancing around the saloon. All the tables near Sadie were vacant. Most of the patrons were huddled at the bar, sending scattered looks her way.

This town was desperate for women. Even women wearing men’s clothes and a lot of guns must have looked tempting to these fools.

“Anyone give you any trouble?” asked Arthur.

Sadie just snorted. The sound was so familiar that it made him a little lonesome. “I can handle myself.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

There was a bottle of whiskey on the table and two shot glasses ready. Sadie poured them a drink, slid one to Arthur. “Got caught out in that storm, I see.”

“You got a real keen eye, Mrs. Adler.” Arthur lifted his shot glass and downed it.

“That girl get caught in it, too?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” Sadie poured him another round and then propped her chin on the edge of her hand. “What’s her story, anyway?”

“Ain’t nothin’ you ain’t heard before - her and her folks tried comin’ out west. Father and brother died on the trail. Then they got robbed blind, prolly by Del Lobos.”

“And you found ‘em and helped ‘em like the Good Samaritan you are.”

“Oh you know - I’m a regular hero, me.”

“That girl’s awful pretty.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” said Arthur and he sighed, leaning back in his chair. He glanced around. A few men were still shooting looks their way, and he didn’t like it much at all. “You already makin’ friends, Mrs. Adler?”

“Well, they was lookin’ to be friendly, sure. But I reckon I’ve got enough friends. I told ‘em as much. They ain’t quite settled over it yet.”

“Sure.” Arthur reached over, grabbed the whiskey and poured them some more shots.

Outside, the rain slacked up a bit, but the thunder rumbled closer, rattling the walls. A few leaks in the roof made themselves known, and Sneaky got out from behind the bar with a sigh and some pots and pans to catch the water.

“So what about this favor you wanted to ask me?” Arthur slid a shot Sadie’s way.

She downed it without a wince, and he was, as always, just a little in awe of her. “I picked up some bounties. I might need a lil’ help with a few of ‘em.”

“I try not to involve myself in such work anymore.”

“Thought that’s what you been doin’ out here.”

“Well, I was. ‘Till I realized how stupid it was for me to be anywhere near a lawman’s office. They might just figure one day that I got me a poster up on their wall, too. Most sheriffs out here look the other way, but I can only push my luck for so long.”

“You heard ‘bout the Pinkertons, then.”

Arthur nodded, downed his shot. His throat burned, and he dug around for a cigarette to soothe the ache. “Yep. And Bill.”

Sadie nodded, too. She took her hat off, drank her whiskey, and sighed. Her hair was gold in the light, smooshed down and sweaty from her hat. “He’s at Fort Mercer.”

Arthur had been trying to roll himself a cigarette, but his fingers twitched and he crushed it to bits. “Goddammit.”

Sadie reached over, took the tobacco and papers. Started rolling one for him. Despite it all, her fingers were thin and pale and they moved much quicker than his old joints. “Didn’t know he was so close?”

“Had not one goddamn clue.” Arthur sat back in his seat and thought how stupid he’d been. How careless. Wandering around the desert like a fool. “If he sees me, there’ll be blood. And I ain’t lookin’ for that kinda trouble. That kinda attention.”

Sadie nodded and finished up with the cigarette, passed it to him. “Well. Go down to Mexico with me, then. Hunt some Del Lobos. Maybe we can even find that girl’s stolen belongings and you can make good with her.”

Arthur ignored the last bit and put the cigarette between his lips. He struck a match on the bottom of his boot and thought for a moment. He’d never been real keen on Mexico. It wasn’t too different from what he already knew, but he didn’t have one word of Spanish in him except _hola_ and a few less polite things he'd learned from Javier. He always stuck out like a sore thumb down south. Currently, he thought he should be attempting to blend in.

“I don’t know, Sadie.” 

“You wanna stick ‘round here, get in a shoot out with Bill? Or the damn Pinkertons?”

“‘Course not. But I-I just ain’t too sure ‘bout Mexico.” Arthur took a drag from his cigarette, cut his eyes to those men who had been sending dirty looks. They were still there. Still glaring daggers and getting drunker all the while. He sighed and looked back to Sadie. “Why you so hot to get down there, anyway?”

“Run outta things to kill up here,” she said, shrugging.

“Jesus.”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit. You ain’t a saint yourself.”

“Well. I can’t argue that - but I am tryin’ to go straight. Gettin’ real tired of runnin’.”

“We’ll always be runnin’, Arthur. We’re hunted - ain’t that what you told me, so long ago now?”

“I said a lot of things then. I try not to do that anymore, neither.” Arthur waved his hand. He took another shot and wished he could get spinning drunk.

“If you don’t wanna hunt Del Lobos in Mexico, we could go after Bill. He’s been a holy terror on this part of the country. We’d get a decent lil’ reward. It ain’t like he’s expectin’ us -”

“I ain’t interested in stirrin’ up shit with Bill - I already told you. He’s a fool, but he ain’t my problem no more. And I don’t need the money. I got plenty still… from, well - you know.”

Sadie took another shot and nodded. “I do, too… it’s just- well, I ain’t quite sure.” She poured herself another drink but didn’t down it. She only slid the glass back and forth, over the bumpy table, and watched the whiskey slosh. “I guess I get bored. Peaceful livin’ ain’t for me no more.”

“I know.”

“Ain’t for John, neither. He got into some trouble in Utah. Killed a man dead. Abigail’s riled at him.”

“She’s every right to be.”

Sadie nodded some. “He’s tryin’, though. Poor bastard.”

“He’s a good man. Beneath it all. But don’t tell him I said that.” Arthur finished his cigarette and stubbed out the light.

“You should answer his letters. He wouldn’t say so but he’s worried.”

Arthur laughed. “Marston’s got more important things to worry over than me.”

“Well, he’s worryin’ over you just the same. Abigail’s worried, too. Hell, even little Jack. Who’s nine years old now, if you can believe that.”

Arthur shook his head. “I cannot. That’s somethin’ else. How is he?”

“Read your letters. Find out.”

“You and your damn letters.”

“You got people who care ‘bout you still, Arthur. I ain’t gonna let you forget.” Sadie finally downed her whiskey and wouldn’t look at him. Both of them were kind of embarrassed by then, a little loose from the liquor.

Arthur skirted them back to another topic. “And Charles? You talked to him?”

“Only a bit. I ain’t seen him in ages, though. When everything went to hell with Wapiti and that whole mess… I think he helped ‘em move. To Colorado, I think it was. He’s halfway settled there.”

Arthur nodded. “I hope he finds some happiness. He sure as hell -”

Sadie straightened suddenly, and Arthur knew those fools at the bar had finally downed enough liquid courage. He turned to see them walk up, four in total, all shit-faced.

Arthur sighed. “Look. You pick a fight with her, and you’re gonna find yourself on the losin’ end of a battle.”

“We ain’t got no qualms with you, mister.” This came from a man who was balding and trying to distract from it with a massive mustache. “Just her.”

“You got qualms with her, you got qualms with me.” Arthur made sure they could see him put his hand on his gun. “Now get lost.”

They looked like they might, just for a moment. But one of them had ventured too close, rested his hand against the table, and Sadie sprung, slamming a knife in between his knuckles.

Of course, this started an all-mighty tussle.

Arthur thought about drawing on them, ending it quick. But they didn’t draw and he still had some honor. So he just kicked the mustached guy in the nuts and when he doubled over with pain, Arthur slammed his head into the table.

Sadie was hacking at the two nearest to her with that knife, spraying blood drops everywhere.

Sneaky ran around from behind the bar, hooping and hollering like he’d do something, but of course - he didn’t - just wrung his hands and watched.

It all went fairly quickly.

The two who went for Arthur only found themselves bruised. The two who’d gone for Sadie were missing some fingers and one was missing a chunk of his ear. All four, however, tucked tail and ran.

“There weren’t even a good fight, you chicken shits!” Sadie hollered after them. She looked more familiar now, splattered in blood.

Arthur gave her a look. One of the guys had got a decent enough punch in at Arthur’s eye and he could feel it swelling. His lip was busted, too, and he’d likely be a sight tomorrow morning, when he was supposed to take the girl rabbit hunting.

He got angry, all of a sudden - angrier than he’d been during that stupid tussle, even. “Goddammit, Sadie. Why you always gotta stir up shit? You ain’t been in this town five damn minutes -”

“Oh, don’t start,” she said, cleaning her knife on her pants leg. “That weren’t nothin’.”

“You’re a goddamn lunatic. They was gonna leave us alone ‘till you hacked at that one feller’s hand.”

Sadie scoffed and looked at him. “Men like that don’t leave you alone - they just bide their time. ‘Til you show ‘em you ain’t to be messed with that is.”

Arthur inhaled sharply and tried to get a handle on his temper. It flared up something awful nowadays, and he remembered Hosea and a bit of the fireside advice he was so famous for.

“One day, Arthur, you’ll get too tired and old to be angry. Take it from me.”

Arthur was still waiting for that day.

“I’m goin’ to bed,” he said to Sadie because that seemed the only option that would save him another fight - this time one he wasn’t sure he could win. Sadie was a fiend with that knife.

“Fine,” she said. She started wiping at the blood on her face, once her blade was all clean. The weapon was her priority.

He paused for a moment, still riled at her, but feeling softer, too, watching her freckles reappear from beneath all that gore. “You… you got a place to stay, right?”

“Yes, Arthur.”

“Where? The boardin’ house?” That idea didn’t settle well. Sadie was like him. She always seemed to drag trouble with her, like a shadow, and he didn’t want anymore trouble finding the Fayne family, just because they happened to be close by.

“No.” Sadie finally finished cleaning her face. Only her clothes and hair remained bloody. “I’m campin’ outside town.”

Arthur could see her out there, in the dark. With her horse and a fire and nothing else besides. She never could pitch a tent worth a damn - she always lost patience with it. And so he imagined her out in the rain, where she wouldn’t even be able to get a good flame going.

He gave a hefty sigh. “Why don’t you stay here for tonight? Got two beds in my room.”

“I’m better on my own,” she said.

“Yet you’re askin’ me to go to Mexico with you.”

“That’s more for your benefit than mine, honey.” She smiled and threw an elbow at his gut. She wasn’t trying to hurt him, but it made him grunt a little, all the same. Then she grabbed her hat and put it on her head and tossed some money on the table. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Arthur. Unless that girl takes up your whole day.”

He glared and she just chuckled, walking out of the saloon and leaving her mess behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post this before my wisdom teeth come out tomorrow, so I'm sorry if there are any glaring grammatical errors. I did kind of rush the editing process a bit.
> 
> I'm very excited for the next chapter and to share that with y'all. <3 Hopefully, it'll be out at the end of this week (if I'm feeling clear-headed enough, that is lol).
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's being patient with me and this slow-moving story :P


	12. Rabbit's Blood

That night, Constance dreamt of scattering rabbits and blue eyes. She woke up flushed at only the memory of that dream.

Mother got up soon after, excited about her new job at the doctor’s. “It’s a blessing,” she told Constance, in the early-morning darkness of their room. She spoke soft, as to not wake the children. “Don’t you think it’s a blessing, angel?”

“Yes,” said Constance.

Mother left her with a kiss and the whisper of guilt.

The light outside was turning a little blue, and Constance watched from the window as her mother hustled across the street, to the doctor’s. As soon as she was out of view, Constance dressed and did up her hair. She looked long on her face in the dirty mirror and thought herself to be too plain. So she pulled some strands of hair free from her braids, to frame her face, and she pinched her cheeks to give them color - then felt silly when Faith woke and caught her.

“Are you leaving again?”

“Yes,” said Constance. “But only for a little while.”

“Where are you going?”

“Never you mind that. Just watch after your brother and sister.”

She left before Faith could ask anymore questions, and waited just behind the boarding house. The light growing on the horizon was soft pink and burning off the chill of night, drying up the puddles from the rainstorm.  She checked the time with her father’s watch. It was well after six, and she was growing impatient.

The heat came on quick, as did the clouds of sand.  It seemed nothing could quench this land, and Constance began to sweat and miss home. She missed the home of her memories, where her father and brother were still alive and the children had never seen the faces of violence.

When Mr. Callahan finally came to her, he came with a black eye and split lip. He tried to hide both beneath the brim of his hat, but Constance saw anyway.

“What happened?” she asked and reached for him, on instinct. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d do if she got to him.

He stepped out of arm’s length, though - very quickly. “Just a lil’ tussle. No big drama.”

Her hand dropped. She blinked against a particularly grainy gust of wind. “Oh. Well… are you all right?”

“Been hurt worse than this.” He had that varmint rifle on his back again, the shiny pistols at his hips. She wondered if he ever went anywhere without them. “Let’s get goin’, ‘fore it gets any later.”

“Okay,” she said.

As they walked, there were no words shared between them, only footsteps.

She realized in the quiet that she’d hoped for conversation. He seemed to be a man of many stories and lives, and she had but one story and one life herself - neither of which were of any interest. She wanted to know about his shiny pistols and the scar on his chin and the things in between, but she wasn’t sure how to ask him.

“We’re goin’ to Lake Don Julio,” was all he said to her on that walk.

She just nodded and followed behind him. He was moving too fast again, and it was hard to keep up.

The lake was a shock, like all water in the desert. It sat in a bowl of red rock, and they stood at the edge of that bowl, looking down some fifteen feet to the lake’s morning-gold surface. In the weeds by the shoreline, things rustled. A few pronghorn lingered on the far eastern shore, wavering dots on the horizon, and on the southern side sat a little house.

“Will they mind us shooting?” asked Constance, motioning to the homestead.

“Ain’t no one ever been home, long as I been huntin’ ‘round here. I reckon it’s just a cabin some old folk take their summers in.”

Constance eyed the house again. It was just about the size of her home in Pennsylvania, and the idea that someone could divide their time between two houses seemed ridiculous.

“C’mere,” said Arthur. He’d crouched near the cliff edge, motioned for her to do the same. He got out a pair of binoculars and handed them over. “See if you can spot somethin’. Somethin’ you think you can hit.”

Constance put the binoculars to her eyes and looked through them. They smelled like leather and mint leaves and tobacco. It distracted her at first, until Arthur asked if she saw anything and then she remembered what it was she’d been doing. She spotted a rabbit fairly close, sitting near the lake’s edge.

She lowered the binoculars, found Arthur looking at her.

They started at each other a moment, until he cleared his throat and looked at the lake. “Your hair’s different.”

She touched at the little strands around her face, smoothing them. “Yes.”

He nodded, rested his elbows on his knees. He was still looking at the water, and he was working his hands, too, like his joints were stiff. “You see anythin’ worth shootin’?”

She kept quiet, until he looked at her again. Then she nodded and pointed, handed over the binoculars. “I saw a rabbit, there.”

He took a glance himself. “That’s pretty far off. You think you can get it through the eye?”

“Yes.”

His eyes crinkled when he laughed. “Well, have at it then, darlin’.” He handed over the rifle, taught her how to lay on her belly and shoot. He stretched out near her to demonstrate, and their arms brushed once, on accident, and she didn’t pull away but he did - real subtle.

Still, she noticed.

“You got it in your sights?” he asked, once things were all settled and she had the rifle against her shoulder, cradled in her hands.

“Yes.”

“Remember to pull the trigger -”

“On empty lungs, yes. I remember.”

The rabbit was sitting at the water’s edge. He was gray and small and something the girls would have thought very cute. There had been many rabbits back home, always rustling in bushes and jumping out in the mornings, bouncing over the grass, kicking up dew.  The girls tried to catch them, but never quite managed. 

Constance took one breath to steady herself. Then she pulled the trigger on an exhale and shot the rabbit dead, right through the eye.

“I got it,” she said, a shade proud.

“You sure as shit did.” Arthur looked over at her. It put their faces closer than she could remember them being before. Close enough she could count the sun freckles over the bridge of his nose. Close enough she could see a little green in his eyes.

She wondered what things he noticed about her face, if he noticed anything at all.

He quickly pulled away and got to his feet, dusting himself off. “Let’s go get that rabbit,” he said.

The walk down into the gully was treacherous. Constance kept slipping in the loose rock, and Arthur would catch her. He seemed comfortable, walking on unsteady ground.

When they got to the rabbit, Arthur crouched by its head and Constance by its legs. There were already flies buzzing around the fresh blood, and Arthur shooed them away before showing Constance where to grab and pull at the rabbit’s skin.

“Just give it a hard tug,” he said.

She was surprised, how easy the fur came away. When she looked to Arthur, she found him watching her again, his face shadowed by his hat. “What now?”

He shifted a little, removed a big knife from his belt. “Gotta gut it now. I can do that, though - if you wanna see how it’s done first, I mean.”

She shook her head. “No. Just tell me what to do. I can do it.”

He pushed his hat up a bit and wiped sweat from his brow and stared at her all the while. Then, when she started to feel nervous, he smiled. It shifted his whole face into something warm. “All right.” He flipped the knife in his hand, held the hilt out to her. “Take this, then. And cut right along here.”

He showed her and she listened.

The blood that welled up beneath the tip of the blade made her a little uneasy, as did the naked pink of the rabbit’s skin. But she kept cutting, until Arthur told her to stop.

“Now, you wanna get a hand in there, yank out its innards. But you gotta be careful, ‘cause the bladder’s there, too - and you don’t wanna bust it.”

It had been a while since she’d seen so much blood.  It had been after Father and David, when they were wandering, and she'd hit her head, cracked it open on the edge of a sharp rock.  The blood came like a flood, down her face, onto the collar of her dress.  She was blinded, from all that red.  And the smell of it now brought that memory back more powerful than the sight.  

“I really don’t mind showin’ you, if you -” said Arthur.

“No, no. I need to do it myself.” She paused a moment, wiped sweat off her forehead. The sun had crept high in the sky, and it made her feel blind and hot and dumb. A worry that something bad would happen crept up her spine and hardened behind her ribs. It was a vague enough worry, but she knew it must have a name.

“Hey.” Arthur put a hand on her shoulder, made her meet his eyes. He looked steady. “It ain’t bad. Just one of them things. You get used to it.”

She nodded and took a breath. His hand was still on her shoulder, a warm and heavy weight. He squeezed once then let her go, and she found the courage to dig her fingers into all that gore. She tried to be careful, as he’d said, but she wanted it to be over. She pulled out as much as she could, and the intestines untangled and stretched after her hand. She pushed back in and got it all, the second time around.

“Is that it?” she asked, her fingers slick with blood.

Arthur took the knife back from her, chopped the rabbit’s head and legs off. All that remained was pink meat and bones. “That’s it. Weren’t so bad, was it?”

She sat back on her legs and smiled.  A little of her worry had eased off, loosened her chest, and she breathed steady again. “I guess not.”

A hot gust of wind blew through.  It moved between them, carrying grit and the smell of desert water.  Those little pieces of hair she'd taken such care to frame around her face became a nuisance, blowing into her eyes, tangling in her lashes with the sand, but she couldn’t do much about it.  Her hands were too bloody.

He saw her struggling and leaned forward. Pushed the hair behind her ear for her, and it was the first time he’d touched her, skin against skin. His fingers were rough but she hadn’t expected otherwise. They lingered on her, and she let them. He traced the line of her jaw, to the tip of her chin, and she looked up at him.

She’d never been kissed before, so she should not have known the language. But it came to her easy, now. The pause between them was brief, and she knew what it meant. Their eyes met and words were exchanged, breathless and fast and clear as if they’d been spoken aloud: _do you want this_ and _yes_ and _are you sure_ and again, _yes_.

He kissed her.

It was not as gentle as she thought her first would be. His lips were chapped and rough against hers, a little too fast, as if he was afraid she’d pull away. But she didn’t and he finally slowed, settling into a rhythm she learned with him.

He grabbed the sides of her dress and yanked her forward. This was rough, too, but she allowed it and half fell against him. She was faintly aware of her bloody hands, so she tried not to touch him but she wanted to. She wanted most to push off his hat and touch his hair, to knot her fingers there and see if this one part of him was soft.

His own fingers tangled into the bun she had at her nape. He pulled some pins loose and pulled her closer, too, until she was pressed up against him, both of them on their knees with that naked rabbit between them.

He tasted like tobacco and mint, and then, of something faintly metallic. It dawned on her slow that it was blood. It was his blood she was tasting.

He realized at the same time and pulled away, his split lip reopened, a line of red trickling down his chin.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She’d never heard her voice sound so strange, and the sun burned sharper now. She wanted to grab hold of him, to stay steady, but her hands were still bloody.

“It’s my own fault. Ain’t yours.” He touched at his lip and hid his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. “We should… we should get you cleaned up ‘fore we go back.”

She heard herself say okay.

She was afraid he wouldn’t touch her again, but he did, to help her to her feet. He led her over to the lake shore, and they both crouched at the water. He scrubbed at his lip, and she washed her hands. Her heart was beating hard, in a rhythm that was new to her.  She tried to slow it, but if she looked at him, it started going strange all over again.

He glanced at her, too, from the corner of his eye. Then away. Then back again. “You got- I got, uh, blood on your mouth there.”

She wiped at it, a smear of red against the back of her arm. Then she washed it away in the water. Her lips felt raw, where his stubble scratched her.

He rolled up his sleeves and averted his eyes. He undid the top buttons of his collar and splashed some water on his neck. Forearms and collarbones - the most she’d ever seen of him. He was paler where the sun didn’t touch him. He had a lot of hair on his arms, and she wondered if it was as coarse as the rest of him or maybe soft and fine.

“I got some blood on your shirt,” she said.

He looked at his shoulder. A smear of red near his collar, where her hand had grazed him. “Oh, it’s all right. Won’t hurt nothin’.”

He’d been bold, in touching her. In tucking that hair behind her ear. And so she tried to be bold now. She brushed her fingers along his forearm, found the hair here _was_ soft. He watched her tracing fingers, her hesitant touch. She thought he might pull away, but he didn’t, so she mapped out a line of veins, all the way down to his hands. His hands were big and heavy and he allowed her to turn one over, so that she could see his palm and all the lines and dry cracks there. It was a little like looking at desert land.

“Your hands are so rough,” she told him, without thinking about it. She was still looking at her dancing fingers.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was all gravel and grit, and that was like the desert, too.

She shook her head, felt the sweltering kiss of the sun’s heat. “Don’t be.” She was too shy to tell him she liked it.

He moved his hand a little, shifted until he pushed up the sleeve of her blouse, running his fingers up her own arm. He wasn’t as hesitant as she’d been. Her skin felt soft and new, beneath his touch.  Delicate, in a way.

He looked up at her when she shivered. His lip was still bleeding, and the ring of purple around his eye was darkening. He looked troubled and sad in a way she couldn’t understand. He said, “You’re too pure for the likes of me.”

She didn’t feel pure, at the moment. She felt bloodied and raw. “You aren’t so bad, I don’t think.”

He inhaled through his nose. Looked at the lake for a moment, like he was thinking on what to say, then kind of nodded and looked back at her. “Well, you don’t know me, do you? You should go back to not trustin’ me, darlin’.”

“How can I?” This question, like all thoughtless and immediate questions, seemed to be the truest thing she’d said to him.

“I could tell you the things I’ve done. Things I ain’t proud of and things your god sure as hell can’t forgive.” He pulled his hand from her, rested his elbows on his knees. He was still crouched, but she’d given it up and gone down to her knees.

“God forgives everything.”

He didn’t seem to buy this for a minute. He only blew out a quick laugh and stretched to his feet. “C’mon. Let’s get you back to town.”

 

* * *

 

The walk back was spent in a different kind of silence than before.

They passed some yellow flowers as they went, and she wanted to ask him what they were. She knew he’d know. But the words dried up and clogged her throat.

She knew there was nothing else really to say. Or maybe, she just didn’t know what _to_ say.  Most of her life had been spent living in this indecision.

When the town came into view on the horizon, she got a bit desperate to find some words. Of course, they didn’t come. She’d nursed a little hope that maybe he’d say something, instead, but all he asked was if she wanted to take the rabbit home with her.  He'd wrapped it and put it in his satchel, before they'd left the lake.

“No,” she said. “I don’t have a good excuse made for it yet.”

He only nodded.

They’d paused long enough to exchange these simple words, and she started up walking again, towards the wavering buildings on the horizon. She felt some dread churning in her stomach, at going back. Back to that stuffy room and the stale streets.

Arthur grabbed her arm, though. He jerked her back towards him and said, “I- I’m not - I didn’t mean to -” He only got through a few false starts before he gave up and pulled her into him and kissed her again. He kissed her breathless, held her close, nearly lifted her feet off the ground. She got up the courage to knock his hat off, and she finally got to tangle her fingers in his hair and it _was_ soft - soft and fine as cornsilk, nearly delicate.

When they slowed and parted and he settled her back onto the ground, she grabbed his face and looked into his eyes.  He didn't seem as steady as he had before.

This shared look seemed to be enough for both of them.  Words might come to them later, but for now, things were settling in the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the delay in updates! I really had no issues with the wisdom teeth, but I slept a LOT this past week. It took me a while to get back into the swing of trying to write daily. But thanks for the well wishes! :)
> 
> (Complete side note, but I watched a show about counterculture cults last night and now really wanna write a cult-like AU for the gang oops. Has this already been done? Probably). I have so many RDR story ideas help.
> 
> Anyway, please let me know what you think about this chapter! I'd really love to hear people's honest thoughts. I fiddled with this chapter a lot and now, overall, I'm unsure about it. :P Let me know where I could improve on things!
> 
> I have the next chapter in the works, too! Should be done soonish :)
> 
> Also, my obsession with hands (specifically Arthur's hands) really was made known in this chapter lol


	13. Rule of Law

They walked closer to each other, on the way back into town. She felt the brush of his hand against hers, once, but she wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not. She thought it was strange, being so aware of someone, the way you were aware of an open flame and the sparks it sent out.

She was staring at the dirt, thinking it all over, feeling feverish and sun-sick, when Arthur let out a low curse.

“What?” she asked, glancing up and then she saw. The Pinkerton was easy enough to spot - a black suit and bowler didn’t belong in desert dust. He was leaning against the hitching post outside the bank, like a lookout, the badge on his lapel catching sunlight and sending it back.

“Just keep walkin’,” said Arthur. He grabbed her arm, a little too hard, and pulled her along. It was subtle, the way he tilted his head down, as if he were just shielding his eyes from the sun, but it was her that ruined it - she did not belong in this desert dust, either. It was her, the Pinkerton noticed first.

“Hello there,” he said and pushed off the post. He was putting a cigarette between his lips and searching for a match as he drew near. “You fine folks wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you?”

They had no choice but to halt. Arthur hesitated only for a second, then opened up his satchel. “Sure.”

“Thank you, sir.” The man took the match offered and lit his smoke with it. He was sweaty beneath the brim of his bowler, completely clean-shaven. His skin looked naked and pink in this sun. “You two sure are a sight. Get caught in a duststorm?”

“Don’t gotta get caught out in a storm ‘round here to get dusty. All you gotta do is walk outside,” said Arthur.

The man lifted his hat, wiped some sweat. His eyes were as green as lake water but not murky in the least. “That’s certainly true, sir.”

Arthur nodded once and put his hand on the small of Constance’s back, to lead her away.

But the man wasn’t done. He said, “You got some blood on you there, cowboy.” He motioned with his cigarette and gave an easy smile.

Arthur didn’t seem to like it. His jaw was too tight. His smile was not easy at all. “In the course of rabbit huntin’, one expects some blood.”

“One hopes for it, I imagine.” The Pinkerton laughed, like it was all friendly. He seemed young but sure - the kind of man who’d gone to college and had not needed to work hard to be smart and have fine things in his life. “Did that rabbit give you a fat lip and black eye, too?”

“No. That would be courtesy of a disagreeable drunk. It’s too bad you wasn’t here last night. Coulda saved the town some violence and made yourself an arrest.”

“Town drunks aren’t really our concern.”

Arthur smiled faintly, looked almost disinterested. “Is that so?”

The Pinkerton held his cigarette between his fingers. His nails were clipped and clean. “Our concerns are actually a bit wider in scope. We go after the real blots on society, you know - the big fish. Bill Williamson, for example.”

“Well,” said Arthur. He coughed once into his fist and shrugged a shoulder. “That’s real fine. Hope you catch him.”

The man stared at Arthur, smoking, and stretched the silence into something uncomfortable. Constance thought it was to press Arthur into saying more, into filling the hollow air between them. But he didn’t bite, and eventually, the Pinkerton gave a little laugh.

“I’m sorry to keep on staring at you, partner - but, you look so familiar. Have we met before?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Arthur tucked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “I got an unfortunate face. Get mistaken’ for folk I ain’t quite a bit.”

“Are you certain?” The Pinkerton narrowed his eyes, that smile still in place.

“Fairly certain, sure. I usually remember the people I meet.”

“You’ve never been further east, then? Say - Blackwater, for example?”

Arthur was too still next to her, radiating heat. And when she looked at him, she saw the glimpse of the man he’d confessed to being. A criminal and someone God couldn’t forgive. She saw his fingers flex once, real slow, like he was thinking about drawing. It was the middle of the day, in the dead center of town, but there was something hardening behind his eyes that frightened her. It made her think he might actually shoot the man dead.

She touched his hand, a quick pass of her fingers over his knuckles. He glanced at her, and she looked back, until that craziness in his gaze seemed to move over as quick as it came.

Only a few seconds had passed.

Then Arthur smiled. “No. I ain’t never been to Blackwater. Cities don’t take too kindly to me, and I don’t take to kindly to them, neither. Guess I ain’t quite refined enough.”

The man had noticed the little touch, the passing glances, and he looked between them, openly curious. “Well. I apologize, then. I suppose I should be moving on. There’s work to be done. But please, if either of you fine people hear any news of Mr. Williamson, find me. My men and I are staying at the sheriff’s house, right down the street there.”

He pointed, and Constance squinted at the old jail and office and the rickety building next to it. She was relieved they weren’t staying in the boarding house.

“Didn’t know Armadillo still had a sheriff,” said Arthur.

“Well - what is it they say? The long arm of the law reaches everywhere. Even in Armadillo. He is just a temporary hire, but I’m sure we’ll find someone suitable for the job, long-term. Perhaps even you could throw your hat in, cowboy.”

Arthur gave a small smile. “I doubt I’m qualified, Mr…”

“Agent.” The man flicked his cigarette away, stomped it out with a once shiny-shoe. “Agent Lauder.” He passed a look between them again and nodded. “Well, I hope you two have a fine evening.”

They watched him walk down to the sheriff’s office. Every step puffed a cloud of dust, ruined his suit further. When he disappeared inside the building, Constance wondered how many other dusty-suited men sat inside.

She wiped an arm across her forehead and felt sick in all the heat. She saw that heat moving, rising from the ground in little waves. And anywhere she looked it was white hot and she felt blind.

“You all right?”

She squinted up at Arthur. He did not look as sun-sick as she was. He was sweating, but it did not run from his hairline in rivulets. It did not drip from his chin.

She wiped her face again and nodded. “Yes. Are you?”

He sighed and looked back at the sheriff. He did not answer her.

“Constance?”

They both turned at the voice. Her mother was emerging from the doctor’s, running towards them with a pinch of worry between her brows. “Constance, darling, what happened? Are you okay?”

Constance looked down at herself, at the state of her clothes. She was sweating through them now. Dust stuck to her. There was even a little blood at the very hem of her left sleeve.

She tried to buy time to find a lie but one did not come to her.

“She’s all right, I reckon,” said Arthur. His voice was easy again, the one she thought she knew. “Just took a lil’ tumble outside the bank. I’ve always said it’s dangerous, lookin’ for honest work.”

He had no idea, of course, how beautifully the lie fit. How easy Mother would accept it. She grabbed at Constance’s arm, forced her to meet her eyes. Her worry had increased, lined itself in her face.

“Are you all right, darling? How are you feeling?” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “You were looking for work at the bank?”

“I’m fine,” said Constance and hoped this would answer all her mother’s questions well enough.

“You should prolly get inside,” said Arthur. “Take yourself a lie down. Cool off.”

“Yes, darling, I think you should -”

Constance squinted at Arthur again. He’d backed up a few paces, and his face was shadowed by the brim of his hat. The word Blackwater curled in her mind, like smoke. She knew that name was important.

“Yes, I think I should retire,” said Constance, her voice slow.

“I can walk you up -”

“That’s all right, Mother. Go back to work, I’ll be fine.”

Mother looked unsure, a little dishevelled herself, but she eventually agreed. She kissed Constance on the cheek and grabbed Arthur’s hand, squeezed it once. “Thank you for looking after my girl. You always seem to be around when we need you, Mr. Callahan.”

“Well,” he said, not looking at Constance at all. “I do what I can.”

 

* * *

 

She got inside the boarding house but the shade did not help her. She leaned heavily against the wall and tried to breathe. The air here was just as hot, stale and unmoving.

Floorboards creaked with sharp and heavy steps, and then the proprietor appeared - Mrs. Byrd, a short and wide woman. She liked watching the world instead of walking it, sitting inside of standing, and to see her out of her favorite chair in the parlor was quite something.

“I ain’t a nanny, you know,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “You left them kids in that room all day, all by their lonesome, and they’ve been making a god-awful racket in there. Lord knows what all they’ve broken. I’ll be checking, too, and you’ll be payin’ for it -”

Constance vomited then, right near Mrs. Byrd’s slippered feet. It was all water and with it, went any strength she had left. She fell to the floor, on her hands in knees, coughing, but she did not lose herself, the way she had in the past, and she thanked God for this.

Mrs. Byrd helped Constance back to her feet, swearing all the while. She led her into the kitchen, sat her at the table and gave her a wet cloth. She muttered beneath her breath as she fixed Constance a glass of water and gave her a tin of crackers.

“Eat, you stupid girl. Eat.”

So Constance did. The crackers turned to dust in her mouth but she choked them down and held them in her stomach. She drank some water and kept it, too.

Mrs. Byrd finally settled herself across the table. The chair creaked beneath her massive weight but stayed together. “If you’re with child, I’ll kick you out. I won’t have a whore in this house.”

Constance held the water glass to her temple, but it was hot, too, as everything was. “I’m not with child.”

Mrs. Byrd grunted again. “I seen you goin’ off with that Mr. Callahan, you know. Seen you through the window, I did. He paid for a whole week’s stay, for you and yours - I ain’t stupid.”

“I’m not with child,” Constance repeated and put the water down. She tried the rag, pressing it to her lips first and then her forehead. It felt just a bit better.

“Mm.” Mrs. Byrd grabbed at a big locket around her neck, held it tight. Narrowed her eyes at Constance. “Why you goin’ off with that man? He’s old enough to be your daddy. And no good besides.”

“He’s teaching me to hunt,” Constance said, too tired to find a lie.

“Hunt?” Mrs. Byrd frowned. “Why you need to know to hunt?”

“Because I’m hungry,” she said. Her throat was sore and dry. She drank some more water, but it didn’t help much. “My family’s hungry. What other reason is there?”

Mrs. Byrd had pulled out a tin of tobacco, was rolling herself a cigarette. She gave Constance a look. “You any good?”

“At hunting?" When Mrs. Byrd nodded, Constance said, "I killed a rabbit today.”

“Well, hellfire. Where is it?”

“Mr. Callahan has it.”

“Why on earth would you give what you got to him?”

“I didn’t have a good story for it,” she said. “For my mother, I mean. She wouldn’t approve of it.”

Mrs. Byrd sighed and licked her cigarette closed. “Goddamn, girl. I thought easterners were supposed to have more sense than that. You coulda just said Mr. Callahan caught the damn rabbit and gave it to you. But never mind that - I’ll tell you what. You start huntin’ and bringin’ the game to me, I’ll tell your momma you bought it from the butcher’s on my say-so and she won’t be none the wiser. Can you cook?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I ain’t much on it, anymore - I got bad ankles and they hurt like the devil. So you can do the cookin’, too. And maybe the cleanin’. And maybe, if you do a good enough job, I’ll knock a few cents off your room and board each week. How’s that sound?”

Constance felt sick again. She saw her life shriveling and drying in this heat, hardening into the desert dirt. She’d never been one to give much thought to the future - there had been other things to worry over - and there were other things to worry over still. But now, all she could think was how much she hated this heat. She thought about Blackwater and Mr. Callahan and her hungry little family and this horrible town.

She said, “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Great.” Mrs. Byrd sat back in her chair. It gave another warning groan, but she looked satisfied. “You can start by cleanin’ up that mess you left in the hall.”

 

* * *

 

He looked in the saloon first but didn’t see her.

“Mrs. Adler here?” he asked Sneaky.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Adler! The only missus you’ve had in here in over a year, you goddamn moron.”

Sneaky didn’t look alarmed by Arthur’s temper. Perhaps he was used to it. He just leaned against the back of the bar and kept folding and unfolding a rag. “You mean that murderous she-devil who chopped Hiram’s ear off?”

“That’d be her, yes.”

“I ain’t seen her.”

Arthur sighed but went right away to the livery. He got Hippolyta from her stall, saddled up, and thought all the while about which direction Sadie would go to camp. He thought it was a good measure of how well you knew someone - to be able to follow them through wilderness.

When Arthur used to wander far and still had people who noticed, Dutch always sent Charles or Javier after him. Before them, he had sent Marston.  But then him and Marston stopped knowing each other so well.  Then he stopped knowing Dutch, too, and things had all gone to hell.

He found Sadie all right, though, just as the sun started to dip west for the evening.

She was camped near the river, as he’d thought.  A tactical spot, pushed up against a mountain of rock and with lots of visibility in all other directions, in case someone came looking.  She surely saw him coming, was waiting for him with a shotgun and a smile. “Been a long day? You look like shit.”

He dismounted quickly. “There’s Pinkertons in town.”

Sadie’s smile slipped but she shrugged, put the shotgun on her shoulder. “So? You knew it was just a matter a time, Arthur. Bill just robbed some farm near here - Ridgewood, I think it was -”

“Ridgewood?” Arthur pulled his hat off, ran his fingers through his hair with the other. He was feeling just a bit unhinged. He felt hunted, too, which was nothing new, but he was tired, worn thin by it. “Goddamn it. Was anyone killed?”

“A boy, I think. I ain’t sure. It’s got folks in an uproar, though.”

“A boy.” Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, tried to calm himself down. He hoped it wasn’t that lovestruck kid hanging on Constance’s every move. Arthur couldn’t even remember the boy’s name but he remembered his eyes. That longing that lived there. He knew it well. “Christ.”

“Have a drink,” said Sadie. She was watching him close. “Settle your nerves.”

“If we’d stayed a few more days there...” Arthur paced a few times, getting overwhelmed by all the little things in this world and this life. Little chances, slight shifts that could make a big difference in the end.

“You’d have gotten in a shootout with Bill,” said Sadie, shrugging. “And maybe the boy still would’ve died. And maybe that girl that’s sweet on you would’ve died, too. Ain’t no use in sittin’ around, wonderin’ ‘bout things, Arthur - shit. You should know that better than me.”

He inhaled through his nose and pointed his eyes south. Across the river was Mexico. It looked the same as the land they stood on now - dry, desolate, turning dusty pink with sunset - but it was not the same. “I know,” he said.

“Sit down.” Sadie nodded towards the little fire she had going. “And have a drink with me.”

He closed his eyes one more time and thought about the things he could’ve done different. It was like picking at healing wound, making it bleed again, just for the hell of it, just to make sure it turned to a nasty scar.

Then he looked over at Sadie. She was all gold in the evening, another old wound. But she smiled at him, nodded, and he finally relented. “All right,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently read an article about the importance of chapter titles and kind of got inspired by it. Should I add chapter titles to this story? What do y'all think? Are they important to you? I'm a bit torn, as I think it'd be weird now to go back and name chapters. This story also (at least in my mind) has three clear parts. Three very different stages in the characters' lives. So maybe I should break it into parts, as well. This first part is almost more like a prologue, anyway, and was not meant to be so long. The middle part of the story is actually the heart of it and what I originally envisioned when I first started writing.
> 
> Anyway, let me know :)
> 
> I'm about halfway done with Chapter 14. I hope to have it up this weekend!
> 
> Thanks so very much for the feedback from last chapter, too! All the comments so far really just thrill me. Thanks xx


	14. Parting by Night

The rest of her family found sleep before she could. Her body felt hollowed out with tiredness, but still - rest would not come. She laid in bed, with Gideon kicking around beside her, and in her mind, she worried the memories of the day thin.

She thought of Blackwater. She’d seen the word once, years ago - at the top of a newspaper. She’d found it odd, a city so far away being mentioned there, in their local paper. She’d leaned over the breakfast table to read it, but her father had pulled it away.

“It’s terrible business, my angel,” he’d said, looking over his eggs at her, his eyes sad. “Nothing that should worry your innocent mind.”

Her innocent mind now wandered back to Arthur. The feel of his hands. The force of his kiss. She felt stirred by it still, even with worry and regret blurring the edges of the memory. Her first kiss - and it had been bloody and blinded by the sun. Now, in the cool of night, in the shade of her room, she could think over it. Her anxieties could twist it into things it was not.

A little sniff sounded in the dark. Constance waited, quiet, until she heard it again and recognized it for what it was.

Faith had spent most of her life crying with Grace, but rarely on her own. So the sound raised Constance from the bed. She walked across the room and crouched near Faith, found her eyes in the dark. “What’s wrong?”

“I miss Daddy,” she said.

Constance lifted her out of the bed and held her for a while, rocking gently. The floorboards creaked beneath them, but Faith grew quiet and the tears Constance felt against her neck grew fewer.

Then, after a while, Faith said, “Do you miss him, sister?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“And David?”

“Yes.”

“Mother says they’re in heaven. She says they’re looking over us and don’t want us to be sad, but I am.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being sad, my love. Nothing wrong at all.”

Faith nodded against Constance’s neck, snot-nosed and flushed. She clung tighter to Constance, her little fingers twisting in Constance’s hair and tugging rhythmically, something she’d done as an infant. It must have soothed something inside her, this ritual, for her face finally dried up.

She said, “I want to see Hippolyta.”

Constance blinked in the darkness of their room. “Mr. Callahan’s horse?”

Faith nodded again.

“Right now?”

Her little sister pulled away from Constance’s neck and looked at her. “Yes, please.”

“It’s late. I can take you in the morning -”

“Please, sister?”

Constance sighed. She was used to demands and pleas from Gideon and Grace. But Faith - who always gave her toys up to Grace, who sat with Gideon if he was ever put into time-out - had never needed much, had asked for even less.

So Constance said, "All right."

 

* * *

 

It was dark by the time he got into Armadillo again. He put Hippolyta in the stables but didn’t bother himself with taking off her saddle.

“I’ll only be a moment, girl,” he told her and she gave him a look. It was not unlike the look Sadie had given him, after he’d told her he wouldn’t be saying goodbye to the girl and her family.

“You’re just gonna leave?” she’d asked.

“It’s better that way,” he’d replied, shrugging.  He believed it to be true.

He’d surely felt something for that girl.  At the lake and - before then, if he was being real honest with himself.  He’d felt something and been made stupid by it, and he knew what that combination got you in the end.

It would be even worse for her - she was too young to be burdened with his years and all the trouble he’d collected and the disappointment that came along with caring for someone like him.

So he’d told Sadie it would be better this way - just leaving.

But, once he was all packed up at the saloon, he did leave a note with Sneaky. “Make sure Miss Fayne gets this.”

Sneak eyed the envelope Arthur had placed on the bar. “That the pretty lil’ thing payin’ you house visits?”

Arthur thought on it a moment, then decided it was worth the risk, to make a scene, so he lunged over the bar. Sneaky wasn’t expecting it - folks rarely expected Arthur to move as fast as he did - and he caught the barman by the lapels, hauled him forward, off his feet.  There'd been a bottle of whiskey between them, and it got knocked to the side, shattered on impact.  A few eyes skipped over at the sound, then quickly skipped back, to their own drinks and their own business.

“Now, I wanna be very clear ‘bout somethin’,” said Arthur, pulling Sneaky up further. The man was atop the bar now, soaked in the spilled whiskey.

Sneaky nodded, his brow creasing.

“If I hear of anythin’ happenin’ to that girl - or her family - I’m gonna come back here. And I’m gonna hold you personally responsible.”

“Me?” Sneaky scrambled against Arthur’s hold weakly.

“Yes, you.” Arthur shook him once. “You first, then anyone else involved. You got that or should I repeat myself?”

“I…” Sneaky swallowed hard. “I-I got it.”

“Good.” Arthur let him go, and Sneaky slid back to solid ground. Arthur made sure to smooth out his lapels for him. “Now, you’re gonna get that letter to the girl, right?”

Sneaky nodded fast.

“And make sure she’s looked after?”

He nodded again.

“Wonderful. I’m puttin’ my trust in you, partner. Don’t let me down.”

 

* * *

 

It felt like they were doing something they shouldn’t be.

They crept out of their room and into the quiet streets, casting looks over their shoulders and when Faith started giggling, Constance smiled. Faith held tight to her sister’s hand, her little fingers sweaty and nervous.

The saloon was the only building with light and sound, but they gave it a wide berth and crept around back, to the livery, without passing another living soul. Inside the barn, it smelled of hay and horses, and the only light came from the full swell of the moon outside.

There were three horses stabled, and Hippolyta was the tallest, easy to spot and still wearing her saddle, which Constance thought was odd. Faith, though, paid it no mind. She tore free from Constance’s hand, ran to the horse and gently patted at her chest.

Constance came up to them slowly, still a little wary. Faith was so small, only barely reaching Hippolyta’s knees. It would be nothing for the horse to lose her patience, but she didn’t. She only made happy little sounds and flicked her ears.  She even lowered her head for a few strokes on the nose.

“Doesn’t Mr. Callahan usually take off her saddle?” asked Constance. She looked to the other horses in their stalls, all of them bare-backed.

Faith shrugged, unconcerned, but Constance felt strange about it. It put a sharper edge to her nerves.

“Didn’t take you lot for horse thieves.”

Constance jolted a little at the voice, glanced over her shoulder to see Arthur. He didn’t smile, as he usually did when he’d succeeded in sneaking up on her, and she felt strange about that, too. “She… Faith wanted to see Hippolyta. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Course not.” He had saddlebags over his shoulder - they looked heavy with supplies. In the silvery light, he was mostly shadow.

Faith ran over to him quickly, hugged at his leg, which seemed to embarrass him a great deal. But he didn’t push her away, only awkwardly patted her head.

“May I feed Hippolyta, Mr. Arthur?” she asked.

“Sure, kid.” He gently untangled her from his leg and put the saddlebags on a table. “You think she wants an oatcake or an apple?”

Faith seemed to really think on it before she decided. “Oatcake.”

“All right, then. Oatcake it is.” Arthur found one in his bag, handed it to Faith, and off she went again, stretching up on her tiptoes with her offering. Hippolyta took it from her with surprising care, and Faith giggled as the horse kissed at her hand.

Arthur watched on, and Constance watched him. He had the usual pistols on his hips but two rifles strapped to his back, like a big X. He wore a bandolier, a bandana around his neck, and he was different. A stranger.

“Are you going somewhere?” she asked, quiet enough for Faith not to hear.

She thought his eyes shifted over to her but it was hard to tell, shadowed as they were by his hat. “Yes.”

Her throat grew dry. Her stomach started turning again. “Because of that Pinkerton?”

Arthur stayed quiet for a moment, long enough to make her think he was picking his words carefully. Then he shrugged a shoulder. “Only a matter of time ‘fore they know who I am. For certain, I mean.”

“And who are you?” she asked. She wanted to take a step closer, to maybe see his eyes better, but she couldn’t quite manage. Being close to him felt dangerous, in many different ways. “What’s your real name?”

“It’s best you don’t know.” He watched Faith for a moment, as she talked quietly to Hippolyta. Then he shifted his hat back and looked at Constance straight. He said, “It’s best for you - and your family and everyone - that I leave. You understand?”

She thought maybe she did. But there was fear and disappointment, beneath the understanding. This town without him seemed even lonelier, even drier. She remembered the first few days after they’d lost Father and David. She remembered how frightening men suddenly were, how afraid she’d been when those riders had come up to them with their dirty hair and rotten teeth. Their foul smell.

One had touched her. He’d grabbed her chin and dug his nails into her cheeks. He’d put his lips against her temple and said she’d smelled nice, and Mother had told him to stop but there was no strength to her voice, no authority, and that had scared Constance, too. Then Gideon had run up and kicked the man in the ankle, had hit at him with his little fists.

The man had shoved Gideon down. Then just laughed. It was nothing to him. And it was not as awful as it could have been. But to Constance, she’d never quite felt so helpless. Never so alone and weak and exposed for that weakness.

Arthur did not look so different from those robbers, now. Not with the bandana and guns and the hat that half-hid his eyes and their intent.

She told Faith to go outside and play. Her sister pouted, but Constance gave her a look that sent her moving. Then, in the sudden quiet, Constance looked at Mr. Callahan and said, “What did you do in Blackwater?”

And he replied, “Nothin’ nice.”

She felt silly, for putting so much trust in him.  For trusting him still.

“You aren’t coming back, then.” It wasn’t a question, really, but she hoped he’d answer it.

“I reckon not,” he said.  He shifted, scratched his jaw.  "No.  I ain't."

She nodded but felt her stomach hollow out even more. The day had been long, and so much had happened that the memory of the kiss by the lake felt old, as if it’d happened weeks ago. Her feelings had changed for him many times over since then. They continued to change now, shifting back and forth until she felt unsteady.

“Is it… is it just because of the Pinkertons that you’re leaving?” she asked, a real question so blunt that it was clumsy.

And Mr. Callahan hadn’t been expecting it. “Like I said… it’s best for you that I - I ain’t no kind of… I mean…” He coughed, looked away. He rubbed hard at the back of his neck then took a small step towards her, pinned her eyes again. “Listen to me. You’re a smart girl. You’re strong. You’ll be - you and your family - you’ll be okay. You got what it takes to survive out here - and that’s more than most.”

It wasn’t a real answer to her real question, but she supposed that was an explanation, all in itself. She supposed there was nothing else to say between them.

He must have felt the same.

He grabbed his saddlebags, threw them over his shoulder again. He passed by Constance and put the bags on Hippolyta, grabbed her reins.

She wanted to say something to him but did not. Constance had often thought she was above the sin of pride, but it came for her now, at the sight of him readying to leave. It came for her as thorns that grew in her throat and kept her silent.

He led Hippolyta out of her stall and towards the front doors, but he paused before he went outside. He said, “You keep those kids close to you, all right?”

She glanced over shoulder, at where Faith played behind them in the empty corrals. She was sitting in the dirt, drawing things with a stick.

“I will,” said Constance, looking back at Mr. Callahan.

“And… and take care of yourself.”

She nodded.

He nodded back. She thought he wanted to say more, but maybe he was too prideful, too. Maybe it was something else entirely. Then he led Hippolyta outside and started to mount up.

This finally loosened her throat a bit. She couldn’t help but say his name - or the only name she knew him by.

He paused, glanced back over his shoulder at her.

She picked up her skirts and walked a little closer, feeling nervous under his attention. Feeling wordless and quiet and a bit miserable.

She could have thanked him. She could have smiled. She could have grabbed his hand or kissed him again. But all she said was: “Be safe.”

It was what her parents said to each other - she realized this belatedly. They'd mostly moved through this life together, a pair. But if Father took Constance and David fishing, if Mother went to pay a housecall to a member of the congregation, they would say to each other: “Be safe.”

Constance realized now safety was not something you could control.  You could not be safe anymore than you could make yourself float. She realized it was a stupid thing to say.

But Mr. Callahan nodded once at her. He looked less like a stranger, more like the man who’d taught her things and been kind.

Then he mounted up and rode away.

She watched from the front entrance of the stables, watched the dust rise up and turn silver in the light of the moon. His shape quickly became too dark to see on the horizon, but that dust remained, moving over the desert like a shapeless ghost.

Faith took off past Constance, into the street, but she quickly slowed, realizing how far ahead he was. Then she looked back to Constance, frowning. “Where’s he going?”

Constance said she did not know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only temporary angst, I promise!
> 
> This story has gotten soooo long. It was supposed to move a lot faster than this, so thank you to everyone who still reads it, even though I've rambled on for quite some time now. I'd say within the next three chapters, it'll move to "Part II," the tags will make more sense, and things will go a bit faster.
> 
> Posting WIPs is hard for me because I'm a perfectionist and WIPs are essentially first drafts. So again, thank you to everyone who's hanging on.
> 
> I'll try to update again by next weekend! (:


	15. Old Loneliness

_Constance,_

_I have to leave town. I am sure you know why. I have enclosed some money for you and your family, to help you along until you can find your feet - but you are a clever girl, and I am sure this will not take you long._

_-A_

The barman from the saloon had found her the day after Arthur left. He’d handed her the envelope without a word and quickly hobbled away.

Inside, there’d been fifty dollars. It was the most money she’d ever held in her life. There’d been a note, too, and she’d read it over so many times now that she had it memorized.

She’d think over the words as she worked - while she washed dishes, scrubbed floors, and cooked for Mrs. Byrd. She’d think over how detached it sounded, no salutation or valediction other than names. She’d think of all that money he’d given her and if she should feel cheap because of it.

It was stuffed in her left shoe - the money. It was the only safe place she knew to keep it. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t told Mother. Perhaps she was afraid Mother would give it away, too prideful to keep it or perhaps it was something else.

But it became a strange comfort.

When Mrs. Byrd would be complaining, when she would threaten to waive their weekly room discount, Constance would shift until she could feel that money digging into the arch of her left foot. It felt like a secret and a blessing.

She was feeling for the money in her shoe when the Pinkerton came to her.

It was the sixth day since Arthur’s departure, and she was behind the boarding house, hitting the rugs with a broom to knock out the dust. Big clouds were passing over, blowing into her eyes, back onto the rugs, and through the dust, he appeared, smiling.

“Miss Constance Fayne,” he said in greeting. He removed his bowler, wiped some sweat off his brow. Laughed when he saw her expression. “It’s a small town, miss. All I had to do was ask about the pretty girl who lives at the boarding house.”

She shifted hard onto that lump of money in her shoe. “I see.”

He walked closer and she thought he would climb the steps and crowd her on the porch, but he stopped, at the base of the stairs. He leaned against the railing and looked up at her with a smile. “Where’s your friend - Mr. Callahan, I believe it was?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, which was not a lie but felt like one. She felt gritty and hot under his gaze. “He’s been gone a few days.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?"

“No, sir,” she said.  Her mother had asked her a similar question, a few nights before, with a surprised look in her eyes, as if she couldn't believe Arthur had left without telling Constance anything. And the answer Constance had to give stung a little then just as it did now. “We… we weren’t that close.”

“Ah.” He nodded, still smiling. “What were you, then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, there seemed to be something between you… a sort of - fondness. At least, that’s what I thought, the day I spoke to you two.”

Fondness. She thought maybe she’d seen that, too - in Arthur’s gaze. He was the first man to look right at her when she spoke, like he was really listening, and there was something dignified about it, something she thought she could get used to. Agent Lauder was looking at her now but he was looking for lies, not truth.  He was listening for what he wanted to hear.

“He saved me and my family from dying in the desert,” said Constance. “What you saw was gratitude.”

“So.” Agent Lauder’s smile shifted a little. “He’s your savior, then.”

“A good Samaritan, more like.”

“Ah. Well.” He patted his suit pockets down, searching until he found what he was looking for - a piece of folded paper. “That certainly does conflict with the information I have on _this_ man. Which, if you wouldn’t mind looking with me, does seem to bear a striking resemblance to your friend. What do you think?”

The agent unfolded that paper delicately and held it towards Constance. She didn’t want to look, but he was waiting, watching her. So she leaned forward.

It was a wanted poster with the hard sketch of a man, scowling and cruel. It said Arthur Morgan at the top. There was no shock to it, only a settling, sinking kind of feeling. It said he was wanted for robbery and murder.

“Well,” said the Pinkerton. “What do you think?”

Constance cleared her throat. She stopped looking at the poster. “It’s not a very detailed sketch.”

“No, but the information here does seem to match - six one, blue eyes, light brown hair.” The Pinkerton thumped his fingers against the poster, looked at her. His smile had returned.

She tried to keep her voice steady and still. “Plenty of men have blue eyes, Mr. Lauder.”

“Agent. And yes, you’re right, of course.” He took his time folding up the poster, sliding it into his suit pocket. “Did you know the man I showed you - Mr. Morgan - was part of the Van der Linde Gang?”

Constance had heard the name, long ago. Vague mentions. Maybe she’d seen the name on the covers of the dime novels she wasn’t supposed to look too hard at. “I’m not familiar with them.”

“Of course not. God-fearing girl that you are,” said Agent Lauder, nodding. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped the sweat on his forehead. “The Van der Linde’s were part of the Blackwater Massacre - surely you’ve heard of that.”

Her stomach was souring. “Yes.”

“Well, after that debacle - they went on quite a tear. Even killed Leviticus Cornwall - another name I’m sure you’re familiar with?”

“Yes. I… I’ve seen the name.”

“Uh-huh. Well, the interesting thing is Mr. Morgan and a few other of the gang members disappeared after a train heist in late ‘99. But Bill Williamson - the man I’m looking for - has made quite a name for himself since then. He’s in the area. And Javier Escuella, another ex-member, is reportedly about sixty miles south of us, right now, over the San Luis. In Mexico.” He looked at her, tilted his head. “I guess you see what I’m getting at, Miss Fayne.”

“I don’t, really. I’m ignorant on such things, Agent Lauder.”

“Well. To see a man who fits Arthur Morgan’s description, in the same area as two other surviving Van der Linde members… it’s quite odd. Wouldn’t you agree?”

A little dust cloud whipped past, pulled at her hair and stung her eyes. The Pinkerton seemed more irritated by it than anything, but he didn’t cower, didn’t cover himself, just kept staring at her all the while, unblinking against the dust, waiting for her answer.

“I suppose.”

“So do you think it’s possible Mr. Morgan might have gone to meet up with Bill Williamson or Javier Escuella?”

“How could I know about Mr. Morgan’s whereabouts when I don’t know a Mr. Morgan.”

“Mr. Callahan, then?” An edge had grown around his smile, made it sharp.  He was losing his patience with her, it seemed.

“I’ve already told you in all the ways I know how, Agent Lauder - I don’t know where he is.” Constance leaned again on the lump in her shoe, felt her pulse jumping in her neck.  She was convinced he could see it.  That he could see some kind of lie in her eyes.

But she wasn't lying, not really.  Arthur had told her it would be better, her not knowing much.  It seemed his protection covered her still.

Agent Lauder wiped himself down again, folded his handkerchief up and put it back into his suit pocket.  "Well, Miss Fayne.  Perhaps you saw on the poster - but there's a ten thousand dollar reward for Mr. Morgan’s capture.  Ten thousand could do a lot for you and your family, couldn’t it?”

That lump in her shoe was real.  Ten thousand dollars seemed like a dream, something faraway and unimaginable in reality.  She only smiled, faintly.  “Yes, it certainly could. And if I knew something, I’d tell you. I’m not in the habit of lying, Agent Lauder.”

He didn’t look as if he believed her, but he smiled again and nodded. “Right. Of course not, Miss Fayne.  Of course not."

 

* * *

 

The sky was red with sunset by the time they arrived at Solomon’s Folly.

They’d dismounted a half mile out and got their weapons ready, but it was all for nothing. The place had been abandoned for some time, judging by the dust that had settled.

“They prolly went across the river,” said Arthur, toeing at an empty pack of cigarettes. They stood in the barn, the only structure still standing strong. There were piles of fossilized horse shit and old hay and a whole lot of debris: whiskey bottles, broken glass, shreds of paper.

“Good thing we’re headed that way, then, huh?” Sadie had found a chest in the loft. Arthur heard her slamming at the lock with the butt of her pistol.

“Need help up there?” he asked, squinting. A beam of evening light was shooting through a window, illuminating patterns of swirling dust. He could only see old hay bales and crates up in that loft.

“Shut up,” said Sadie. Then he heard the crack of the lock breaking away, the trunk opening. “Hey, I found some stuff.”

Arthur sighed and made the climb up the ladder. He had to stoop low to clear the slanting barn roof, and he made his way over to Sadie as she crouched in front of the chest, rifling through it. “Anythin’ interestin’?”

“This your girl’s?” Sadie held something up to him. Light sparked off of it - a chain and then, at the end, a cross.

“I ain’t sure.” Arthur grabbed the jewelry from her, eyed it. “And she ain’t mine.”

“I reckon she could be,” said Sadie as she went back to digging in the trunk. “If you cleaned yourself up a lil’, I mean.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth.” He held the cross higher, watching it glint in the light. It was real gold, that much was clear. It was a little ornate, and he couldn’t much imagine Constance wearing it. “This might fetch a decent price at a fence.”

“You should send it to the girl.” Sadie had pulled out a few full bottles of brandy and two pocket watches.  "I'm sure she'd appreciate the gesture."

“Give it a rest, Sadie.”

“Hey - I’m just tryin’ to help you,” she said.

“Yeah, well - I don’t remember askin’ for your help.”

They fell into silence after that. Sadie commandeered all she could from the trunk, and then they got a little lazy and made camp right there outside the barn. Once the sun had settled and the moon came out, the land around them didn’t look so dry and littered.

They had them a few drinks of the newfound brandy, and Arthur felt a little more relaxed. Sitting by the fire and an old friend. It was nice, not being the only one watching the horizon, listening for other breaths or the crunch of footsteps.

“You remember the last time we camped out together?” asked Sadie.

This spoiled a bit of Arthur’s peace, and he played dumb. “No.”

“It was when we went up to Hanging Dog Ranch. When we killed all them O’Driscolls.” She was holding the brandy bottle, staring into the fire. She didn’t seem upset, only thoughtful, so he wondered if maybe she wasn’t remembering the O’Driscolls but rather her husband and a different time altogether.

Arthur didn’t want to say anything, to ruin the memory, so he just hummed.

They were quiet again, for a very long time.

Then, Sadie said, “I been tryin’ to find Micah.”

Arthur had been drifting a little, in and out of memory and drunkenness, but this woke him up. “What?”

Sadie shrugged a shoulder and wouldn’t look at him. She took a swig of the brandy and tried to pass it, but Arthur wouldn’t take it. She blew out a sigh. “Ain’t you curious as to where he is, what he’s been doin’?”

“No, I sure as hell ain’t.”

“Well, I am. He don’t strike me as the type to just lay down and forget ‘bout things. Especially that money we took.”

“That money was ours,” said Arthur, hard enough that he almost believed it entirely. “It weren’t his. And he’s about survival, Sadie. He ain’t gonna come huntin’ us for the hell of it.”

“It wouldn’t be for the hell of it, and you and I both know it.” She finally looked over at him, scowling. “I been hearin’ things. I been hearin’ rumors of the government strong-armin’ old outlaws into huntin’ other outlaws down.”

“That sounds ridiculous.” Arthur finally grabbed the brandy again and took a healthy swig.

“Maybe. But maybe not. We already know Micah was workin’ with the goddamn Pinkertons all those years ago. What if they really make it worth his while to go after us, huh? You think he’s gonna turn down the opportunity to kill you and John, after all that happened? You think he’s really gonna forget about that money?”

“I reckon he’s got enough money. I’m sure him and Dutch went back into Blackwater to recover what we left there.” Arthur’s mouth felt bitter. Any peace he'd had was gone and the drink was doing nothing to help him find it again. “I don’t wanna talk about this, Sadie. Shit. It all happened a long time ago now.” 

“Don’t matter how long ago it was,” she said and he knew she was right.

Despite himself, he was thinking back. To that night, when he got John down the mountain and told him to leave. Then Arthur had gone back to those caves. He’d found that chest with all their hard-earned money. It had been too much to carry, so he’d lugged it onto the back of a wagon. It was hell, trying to get out of that mess of Pinkertons and Army men with a wagon, but he’d managed it. There was no joy in the escape, though. No joy in riding up to Copperhead Landing and finding John and the rest waiting.

The two of them had opened the trunk and looked inside. Gold and cash and coin. The sun was rising by then, shining on all that money.

John had said what Arthur was thinking. He’d said, “I ain’t sure ‘bout this.”

“Well, I am. We need money, don’t we? You sure as shit do. You got Abigail and Jack to think about.”

“We spilt a lot of blood, gettin’ all this, Arthur.”

“All the more reason to have it. So it weren’t for nothin’.”

“It’s dirty money.”

“When’d you get so goddamn superstitious, huh?”

They hadn’t talked about it anymore, just divided it all up amongst the group. Tilly, John, Sadie, and Arthur. They’d put aside some for Charles, too. Arthur had volunteered to get it to him.

Then they’d all been looking at him, waiting for something.

He’d said, “We gotta split up, now. They’ll be lookin’ for a group.”

Tilly had cried a little. Abigail, too.

Arthur had tried to shake John’s hand, but John pulled him into a hug instead. He’d smacked his back hard and said to him, real low, “Take care of yourself, brother.”

“You, too,” Arthur had replied. “Take care of your family.”

“I will.”

One by one, they’d left, until it was only Sadie and Arthur remaining.

“I ain’t leavin’ you,” Sadie had told him.

“Yes, you are,” he’d said.

They’d argued over it a little, but he won her over eventually. It hadn’t been much of a fight, really. They both knew they were no good for company anymore.

They’d parted ways. Arthur had left the money for Charles where he would find it but didn’t speak to him again.

Then, for the first time in over twenty years, Arthur had been completely alone. He’d thought, at first, that was what he wanted.

Now, sitting by the fire with Sadie, recalling all this, he thought back to something Old Strauss had told him in Beaver Hollow, as everything was going to shit.

“I’m too old to be alone,” he’d said.

Arthur didn’t pay it any mind then. Strauss was a bundle of nerves by that point, likely to start hooping and hollering and jumping over the smallest thing. The old fool had said a lot and so had everyone else, and all the sentiments started tangling together.

It wasn’t until a year or so later that Arthur had started sorting them out, untwisting them. And then he recalled Strauss saying that, and he understood it very clearly.

He thought about it now, drinking with Sadie.

He was too old to be alone, but he needed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm gonna go to once a week updates. Every Saturday. Unless I can finish a chapter in between, and if that's the case, I will post it whenever it's finished and still try to get an update out on Saturdays. Work is a bit busier than usual, as well as school, so it's taking me longer to write, unfortunately!
> 
> I'm sorry for the delays!
> 
> Anyway, I'm so appreciative of all the kind comments and kudos. I can't describe how exciting it is to log in and see someone has taken the time to read this story and comment or drop a kudos. It's just the best. Thank you for still reading (:


	16. Measuring Sin

The days passed, then weeks, and their lives settled like sand. One gust of wind could upset things, but for now, they were warm and still in the sun.

Mother made a little money at the doctor’s. It kept them fed and clothed, along with Constance’s work for Mrs. Byrd. The children started to gain a bit of weight back, and what they gained, Constance lost.

“Please go with me to see Doctor Deakins,” Mother had told her. “He’s a very smart man. Very kind. He’ll see to you for a reduced fee -”

“I’m fine,” said had Constance. She knew it was only her nerves and did not need the so very kind and smart Dr. Deakins to confirm it.

It had quickly become apparent to Constance that Armadillo was a diseased place, not just in body but in soul. Something wicked rotted at its core and spread outward like sin. It sent good people scattering, and the rest lingering like flies over spoiled meat.

It began to feel as if the men in town were circling around her each time she left the boarding house. Or perhaps they were lying in wait, like a pack of wild dogs. Waiting for the right moment, when she was weak and alone.

After a few weeks, one man finally got his courage up. He followed her down the street, into Herbert Moon’s general store. She felt his eyes. She heard the creak of his boots behind her. And as she was picking through a batch of apples for the freshest ones, he crowded near her.

“You lookin’ for work?” he asked.

She had told herself she wouldn’t look at him. A look was sometimes all a man seemed to need. But his question pulled her gaze up to him. He was sweaty, as all the people in Armadillo were, but the sheen on his skin seemed particularly foul.

“A sportin’ girl could make a killin’ in this town,” he said. “‘Specially a pretty thing like you.”

“I’d rather be poor,” she replied and looked away.

He persisted, though. He even touched at her hair and said it was very soft.

She kept still and silent and prayed he would just go away. She once even glanced to Herbert Moon, out of desperation, but he did not appear to like people, especially women, so he merely ignored her.

When the man ran a hand down her back, rested it right above her bottom, she dropped her basket of apples. They all thumped to the floor and rolled, and Mr. Moon finally spoke up.

He said, “You better pay for those!”

The man watched her as she bent down to gather them. It made her feel shameful, the way he eyed her from up high.

He said, “If you change your mind about sportin’, you just tell me. I’d be your first customer.”

She rushed out of the store and walked hard for half a mile, until the town grew blurry behind her. But all the land ahead of her was blurry, too. Heat-streaked and empty. There was nowhere for her to go.

She sat heavily on a rock and cried a little, the basket of bruised apples at her feet. She tried praying, too, but she’d forgotten how. Praying only worked when you knew how, and so she’d lost this, too.

There was nothing else to do but go back to the boarding house.

Mrs. Byrd fussed over the apples and anything else she could think up, and Constance started preparing dinner under that steady stream of complaints. She’d felt raw and red before, blistered. But now she only felt as barren as the land around her. Mrs. Byrd’s grievances passed over her like nothing more than a dry breeze.

“And those children were makin’ a racket again today. I don’t believe for one second they’re workin’ in them old primers I gave ‘em.”

“I’ll have a talk with them,” Constance said as she chopped up the bruised apples and readied them for a pie.

“You? Why do you have to? That ain’t your job, girl. That’s a job for their mother.”

“Why are you complaining to me, then?” asked Constance.

This made Mrs. Byrd huffy. “Some cheek on you,” was all she said before she waddled back into the parlor and left Constance to finish dinner in relative peace.

Mother did not arrive in time to eat dinner with Constance and the children. She was kept busy at the doctor’s. Deakins was the only physician within fifty miles, and this land was surely afflicted, filled with desperate and dying people. They traveled a lot, to homesteads all throughout New Austin, and Mother usually came home dusty and tired and wordless, as she did tonight.

Constance had just finished cleaning the dinner mess away, and she sat at the kitchen table, with the back door propped open, hoping for a breeze.

Mother appeared quietly and ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair in greeting. “Are the children asleep?”

“I told them to go to bed,” said Constance. She was staring at the land. There was only one final strip of red light on the horizon, and it was fast fading. “They most likely didn’t listen and are upstairs now, playing.”

Mother laughed once and found the plate of food Constance had left out for her. She settled in the seat across from Constance and caught her eye. “Have you eaten today?”

Constance could not lie, even with a smile, but she tried. “Yes.”

“You know, it’s a sin to fib. Especially to your mother.” She stood up and went behind Constance, rummaging around in the cabinets.

“Is it more of a sin to lie to your mother than to other people?” asked Constance. These were the kinds of questions she used to pester her father with, only he never lost his patience and he always had an answer. She realized now she hadn’t been teasing him or trying to find some flaw in his logic. She’d only wanted him to keep answering. She’d wanted to know there _was_ an answer and that he had it and things were right in the world.

“All sins are equally bad in God’s eyes," answered Mother now but it did not seem to right things. She reappeared in front of Constance, sat an empty plate on the table, and scrapped half her food onto the plate. She slid it towards Constance.

Constance stared, for a moment, at the food she’d cooked but hadn’t tasted. She tried to summon up a little hunger but it would not come. Her hunger had dried up like most everything else. “Some sins seem worse than others, don’t they?”

Mother paused, and Constance waited for a lecture. But Mother only smiled a little, too tired to do much else. “Yes. Now eat.”

Constance saw no way around it, so she tried. The potatoes turned to sand in her mouth. She struggled to get them down.

“Do you miss Mr. Callahan?”

Constance looked up sharply. “Why would you ask that?”

“I know you think I’m blind sometimes, darling.” Her mother smiled again, a wise and all-knowing kind of smile.  The kind of smile Constance was used to.  The kind that, before, had brought her a great deal of comfort.  Only now it brought grief for something lost. “But I’m not blind.”

“So what is it you think you see?”

“A bit of a broken heart, perhaps.”

This made Constance laugh. She had to push away her plate. The smell of the food was turning her stomach sour.

“I knew you’d scoff at the notion.” Mother’s smile turned wry.

“I don’t know Mr. Callahan well enough to have a broken heart over him, Mother.”

“Sometimes we don’t have to know people very well to miss them. To want them around. Sometimes… there’s something there. A connection.” Mother paused to look at Constance, and what she saw on her face made her laugh a bit. “Oh, I know you think I’m a silly romantic. You always have been my serious little girl. But you aren’t above such things, my love. No one is above a bit of infatuation.”

Constance might have blushed, had she not felt so bloodless and tired. She couldn’t find anything to say to her mother so she kept quiet.

“He seems like a good man - Mr. Callahan,” said Mother, pressing.

“I’m not certain he is.”

“I’m not saying he is without sin, my love. All of us have done things we regret. But his heart seems pure. A cruel man would not have shown us such kindness, without asking for anything in return.”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. If he’s good or bad.” Constance stood up, grabbing her plate. She’d only eaten a few bites. “I don’t believe Mr. Callahan will ever come back.”

Mother only hummed as she cut up her potatoes. “You never know, darling.”

 

* * *

 

They made it across the boarder and into Chuparosa after two weeks of riding. The town was a circle of white adobe buildings, perched atop a dusty cliff. The people within had seen too much sun and had been made miserable by it. They sent half-hateful looks at Arthur and Sadie as they rode in.

“Don’t think they like us much,” Arthur said.

Sadie only shrugged. She took the horses to be stabled and told him to get them rooms at the saloon.

“Yes, boss,” he said.

The saloon was called the cantina here. The barman spoke no English, and Arthur spoke no Spanish so it was quite the ordeal - renting the rooms - but eventually, after enough hand gestures and miming, once both men were thoroughly humiliated and stupid feeling, Arthur had secured two rooms.

He didn’t bother inspecting them. He knew they’d be dusty and sad. So he just mimed a drink, and this, the barman knew.

He nodded and smiled. He hustled around the bar and poured him a shot of something clear, but Arthur didn’t question it.

“Thanks. I mean… uh, gracias?”

The barman didn’t look all too impressed, so Arthur took his shot and went outside, where it was just a bit cooler. He sat beneath the shade of tattered canvas and watched the sky turn gold and he waited for Sadie.

He felt this was going to be a big waste of their time. No one so far knew where the Del Lobos were. Or if they did know, they weren’t talking to two Americans about it.

He took his shot and nearly hacked up a lung.

“It’s strong stuff, yes?”

Through his watery vision, Arthur saw a dark haired man standing near his table. Arthur reached for his gun, but the man quickly held up his hands.

“I mean you no harm, friend,” he said and smiled. He was sleepy-eyed and too clean and Arthur didn't like the look of him one bit. “I only wish to speak with you.”

“So speak.” Arthur blinked a few times to clear his vision, then cleared his throat. He kept his hand on his gun.

“Not very trusting, huh?” The man crossed his arms over his chest, still smiling. His face was smooth, dimpled with that grin, but Arthur got the feeling he wasn’t as young as he seemed.

“Trust don’t come easy in this place,” said Arthur.

“Does it come easy anywhere?”

Arthur stared at him a moment, then kind of laughed.  He was tired, and it was catching up to him now, all at once, on the heels of that shot of liquid fire he'd taken. “I reckon not.”

The man motioned at the table. “May I sit?”

“Sure. Guess I can’t stop you.”

“You could shoot me. That’s the American way, isn’t it?” Despite this, the man pulled out a chair and settled easily across from Arthur. His jacket shifted, and Arthur spied a gun on his hip - a pistol.  Nothing flashy but it was well taken care of.

“I suppose. Maybe it’s just man’s way in general. Violence don’t seem to have one specific nationality.”

“You speak a bit like a philosopher.” The man tilted his head. His eyes were narrow and curious. “This is a surprise.”

“You ain’t heard many philosophers, then, have you?” Arthur leaned forward on the table, studying the man across from him. “Who are you, anyway?”

“My name’s Rafael. You can call me Rafa, if you’d prefer.”

“Why is it, then, that you picked me to practice your English on tonight, Rafa?”

“Who better to practice English on than a real life American cowboy?”

Arthur sighed and shook his head. “Cut the bullshit, would you?”

Just like that, Rafael’s smile blew out like candlelight. He turned serious and old, without that smile. “I been hearing things. Been hearing about two gringos asking around for Del Lobos.”

“And you’ve taken some offense at that?” asked Arthur. He shifted his hand back to the gun on his hip.

“No, no, no, no. You misunderstand - I want to help.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, ain’t that just overly kind and suspiciously helpful.”

“I won’t lie to you, my friend,” said Rafa and his smile reappeared, faintly. “It’s not entirely motivated by kindness.”

“What a surprise. You a bounty hunter, too, then?”

“Not really. The money -” He held up his hands, fluttered his fingers. “It does not interest me.”

“Well.” Arthur sat back in his chair. “I certainly have a hard time believin’ a feller who says money don’t interest him.”

Rafael tilted his head, back and forth, then smiled. “Money is the root of all evil, is it not?”

“Most people don’t stop to concern themselves on the matters of good and evil when there’s a load of cash danglin’ in front of ‘em.”

“And that’s the big problem, my friend.”

“I ain’t really interested in debatin’ morality with you, _my friend_. So why don’t you tell me right now what you want with Bolivar Romero. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to shoot you.”

This didn’t seem to ruffle him in the least. He only leaned back in his chair, shrugged one shoulder. “I just want to see him hang, this is all. He has too many men for me to go on my own. All the people here - they are too afraid to help me.”

“Why you wanna see him swing? What’d he do to you?”

Rafael looked at the table. He brushed his fingers across the bumpy surface, and Arthur studied them.  Once, long ago, Abigail had told him something that'd stuck with him.  She'd said you couldn't tell a man's character by his eyes but you could by his hands.  She'd said that's how she'd known who would hit her, who would try to skip out without paying, who would be gentle. 

"What do my hands tell you?" he'd asked her one night.

"That you work too much," was all she'd tell him.

Rafael's hands looked like they'd worked little.  He looked up at Arthur and said, “This is not your business, I don’t think, what he did."

“I disagree.”

“Well, maybe I go talk to your friend. The woman. See what she says.”

“She ain’t likely to say much. She’s more of a shoot first, talk later kind of woman.”

Rafael sighed and leaned forward on the table, his eyes catching Arthur's.  There was no humor in them now. “I know where Bolivar is. I know where his men are. We can go to him. You two can get paid. I can watch him die. Everyone is happy.”

“Except Bolivar, I’d imagine.”

“Except Bolivar, yes.”

Arthur said he’d think about it. He said he’d have to take it up with the boss, who was Sadie, and they’d have an answer for him by morning.

Rafael only nodded. He got up and left without another word. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

When Sadie returned from the stables, Arthur relayed the information.

“You trust him?” she asked.

“No.”

“You think he really knows where Romero is?”

“Maybe.” Arthur lit two cigarettes, handed one off to Sadie. They smoked for a minute while the air turned cool and the cantina spilled light out to them, along with music and laughter and a language they couldn’t understand. Then he said, “His English is good. He don’t have a lot of scars. He’s a little soft ‘round the middle, and he’s too clean. So I’d say he’s from a rich family.”

“And?”

“And that means maybe he really ain’t after the money.”

“It’s prolly revenge, then.”

Arthur nodded and smoked, looking at the darkening town. “Prolly.”

“Well. What the hell. Ain’t like we got any better options.”

Arthur sighed. He knew, from the moment Sadie came back from the stables, this would be her ultimate answer. And he knew he’d go along with it, the fool that he was.

He just nodded again and flicked away his cigarette. “I guess not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this is riddled with errors! I didn't have as much time to edit, but I wanted to get this chapter out on Saturday like I promised! 
> 
> Again, the parting angst between Constance and Arthur won't last long. Things will speed up next chapter :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is still reading and thank you to those who leave such lovely comments! <3 I had a hard time this week finding inspiration to write, but I read the comments I had in my inbox and it really spurred me on. So I'm very grateful!


	17. The Devil in Dark Places

Her father said she had a gift, that if she just listened she might hear God speak.

When it happened, it did not feel like a gift, and she always forgot how to listen.

She was in Herbert Moon’s store again, feeling hunted and hurried, when it came upon her. Slow, at first. She’d picked up a jar of salted offal and noticed the shake in her hand. She watched that little tremble turn to an uncontrollable jerk.

Each time, she was reminded of the first - it was the same fear she felt now that she had when she was six years old. She knew she was going some place else, a place she never remembered after. A place that left her body vacant and convulsing.

She watched the jar of salted offal tumble from her limp fingers, hit the floorboards and shatter.

“Goddamnit, girl!” said Herbert Moon.

The world tilted sideways and she went with it, and that was the last thing she remembered.

When she came to again, her fear picked up where it had left off. There were faces hovering above her, expressions so twisted she couldn’t make them out. Voices, too, bouncing all around, caught in the haze of her mind and drifting.

She was under water, trying to find her way to the surface. Turned upside down at first and then rising too fast, all memories flooding back to her.

There was blood in her mouth. Her body ached and trembled. And her mother was there, leaning above her, telling her to be calm because she was crying very hard.

“Let’s get her up,” said one man.

She was lost in the current of waking, now - limp. Somehow, her mother and the man got her to her feet. They carried her outside, between them, and the sun was so hot and bright that she cried some more.

“Close your eyes, angel,” said her mother so she listened.

When she opened them again, she had been cleaned up and was lying on a cot, staring up at a cobweb-cluttered ceiling.

“How long has she had these spells?”

Constance turned her head with great effort. Her mother and a thin man stood sideways in her vision, huddled close and frowning. There were medicine bottles and jars behind them, diplomas on the wall. The smell of alcohol was in the air, sharp and strange.

“She’s had them ever since she was little,” said her mother.

“Did anything happen to her as a child? Did she take a fall and hit her head?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. We took her to the physician in our town, but he said there was nothing that could be done for it.”

“Well, that’s only half true. There’s bromide. But I -”

It took great amounts of energy, but Constance sat herself up. She said, “No, I don’t want to take anything for it.”

The man hustled over quickly. He was graying at the temples and wore tiny spectacles and a very large mustache. It was peppered with a little white and a few crumbs of food. The hand he extended to her was small and delicate. “I’m Dr. Deakins. Your mother is in my employ.”

“Doctor,” Constance said, taking his hand for a careful shake. His skin was clammy-cold.

“You hit your head very hard when you went down,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” She looked down at her unsoiled gown and felt shame. “How long have I been… indisposed?”

The doctor pulled out a watch from his pocket. “Only ten minutes or so. Would you mind answering a few questions for me? I’ve never met an epileptic before. It’s really quite the opportunity, and I’d like to know more -”

“Could it perhaps wait?” Constance felt around on the back of her head and found a painful lump. “I am very tired.”

“I understand. Of course, of course.” The doctor nodded. His curiosity burned bright behind those tiny spectacles. “Could I just ask a few questions, though, very quickly? Do you feel tired after an episode? Do you ever -”

“Bernard, may I speak to my daughter alone for a moment?” Mother appeared beside him, touching at his arm.

He blinked a few times and looked just a little disappointed. “Oh, yes. Of course. I’ll be… right outside, Lorena.” With that, he hustled through the front door. A slice of light shot in, made Constance wince, and then he was gone.

Mother pulled a chair near the bed and sat, her back straight. She had something clenched in her hand. “Would you like to tell me why I found this in your shoe?” Mother opened her fist, and in the center of her palm, sat the money Constance had been carrying with her for so long.

Constance looked down at her feet as they rested on the bed, bare and blistered still. She began to sweat. “Mr. Callahan gave it to me.”

“Why?”

There was a lot of weight, in that one word question, and Constance felt she was buckling under it. “He… I don’t know. He left me a note. He said he thought it could help us.”

“He just gave you fifty dollars out of the kindness of his heart?”

“What are you really asking me?”

Mother blew out a sigh, and Constance finally looked back at her. She was staring up at the ceiling, shaking her head, and some hair had come free of her chignon. Some of it was graying. “I… why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Constance.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

Mother stood up sharply. Her chair scraped over the floorboards with a screech. “Constance, I know you are unhappy here. I know you think I don’t see it, but I do. And I’m sorry for it. I hate to see you unhappy. But what else is there for us to do?”

“I don’t know,” Constance repeated. This seemed to be the truest thing she could say.

“Well, I don’t either.” Mother pushed some of her hair back behind her ears and paced the length of the bed. “You have to know there is no survival on your own. Not as a woman. This is the world we live in. We cannot survive alone, you understand?”

“Yes.”

Mother paused and looked down at Constance. Her eyes were watery, but she wasn’t crying. “Are you sure that you do?”

“I wasn’t planning on running away, Mother. I was just…” She tried to think, to pick her words with care, but there was no picking words with care when you didn’t have many to begin with. “I kept the money because I thought we might need it.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me we had it?”

“I thought… I thought you might be angry.” Constance looked to her lap, felt shameful. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

“Well, I don’t, Constance. I don’t understand anything.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur could not bring himself to truly despise Rafael. They were too similar, and Arthur had been the man Rafael was now. Maybe Arthur still was that man.

They found a brothel in Diez Coronas that Bolivar frequented. No one wanted to talk, and so Rafael took one of the girls into a room and she came out a few minutes later, sobbing.

“He’s in some caves east of here - an old mine,” said Rafael as he exited that room, looking as unruffled as he had when he went in.

“What’d you do to her?” asked Arthur.

“Nothing. I only scared her.”

Arthur thought the girl had looked a bit like Constance. Maybe he only saw a resemblance because he was looking for one. Maybe he only followed after that girl and gave her some money because he was trying to be something he was not.

“Did he hurt you?” Arthur asked her.

She didn’t speak English, though. She only looked at him through teary and hate-filled eyes. She spat at him when he gave her the money, but she kept it, nonetheless.

Arthur left her with a sigh, and they moved on, to the east and these caves.

At night, Arthur watched Rafael closely. Once camp was made, Rafael would always excuse himself. He would wander out of the circle of firelight, and once, Arthur had followed him. Rafael had only gotten to his knees, pulled out the crucifix he wore around his neck, and prayed in Spanish.

The night after the brothel, once Rafael had made his exit, Arthur turned to Sadie. “He scared that girl half to death.”

“We’ve both scared people, too,” she said, looking into the fire.

Arthur didn’t know what to say to that because it was so true. So he was left feeling like a fool and a fraud. He tried to write a little in his journal, but the words wouldn’t come so he sketched instead. He began drawing the girl from earlier in the day, but she looked more like Constance on paper than she had in real life. He’d made it so.

When footsteps sounded behind him, he snapped the journal shut.

He still thought Rafael might have seen what he was drawing, though the man did not say anything. He only settled beside Arthur and motioned at Sadie.

“She sleeps like a child,” Rafael said.

Sadie had curled up on her side while Arthur had been drawing. She’d fallen asleep, her hands clasped neatly on her cheek and her face smoothed of any worries.

“She must have a pure heart,” said Rafael.

Arthur laughed at this and put his journal away. “I ain’t sure about that.”

“I did not hurt that girl today.” Rafael rested his elbows on his knees, kept staring at Sadie. “I didn’t lay a finger on her.”

“Okay.”

“I would never hurt a woman.”

“Anyone else is fair game, though, huh?”

Rafael gave a brief smile. It took ten years off of him, that strangely boyish grin. Then he was serious again, looking at Arthur. “The girl you were drawing - is she your woman?”

Arthur sighed and stretched out his legs. The bones in his knees popped loud and were warmed by the fire. “No.”

“She is someone special to you, yes?”

“You a mind reader now?”

Rafael grinned again. “Only a reader of eyes, my friend.”

Arthur just grunted. Rafael was smart enough to let it drop, and so they sat in silence for a while. The fire cracked and sent sparks to the sky, and in the distance, some coyotes were calling to each other. The moon was full tonight and yellow. It cast the world in a strange new light.

Beside him, Rafael had pulled out his crucifix and stared at it, running his fingers over the shape of it.

Arthur said, “That ain’t yours, is it?”

“It’s mine now.”

“Who’d it belong to before?”

“My sister.”

Arthur nodded. He looked at the fire and saw it was getting low so he stoked it. It gave his hands something to stay busy with. “You know, I’ve always said vengeance is an idiot’s game.”

“I want justice. Not vengeance.”

“Sometimes, the two get confused.”

Rafael said no more. He only tucked the crucifix beneath his shirt again and laid out his bedroll.

Arthur began to worry a little, and by the next morning, the worries had grown. Over the next few days, Rafael grew nearly silent. Circles formed beneath his eyes like bruises, and he aged, as pain ages even faster than time.

By the time they made it to the old mine and saw all the horse tracks and the signs of life, Arthur was certain Rafael would kill Bolivar as soon as he laid eyes on him.

As the three of them sat on a cliff, looking down at the mouth of the cave, counting the men they saw coming in and out, Arthur said, “Remember. Bolivar is wanted alive.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” said Rafael. “I want him to suffer.”

Arthur looked at Sadie, and she only shrugged.

It was easy, picking off all the Del Lobos outside the cave. They were spread out and not expecting any more trouble than an irritable rattler might provide. By the time they had all the lookouts killed, they moved to the mouth of the cave, and that’s when the firefight really started.

This was easy, too, in a way.

Gunsmoke didn’t startle Arthur anymore, and he should have found this troubling. But he felt nothing - no fear, no unease, only a heightened sense of awareness. Every smell, sound, and motion - he took it all in. He was sharpened by this kind of work.

Sadie wasn’t sharp so much as a blunt force of nature - moving through the ranks like a monsoon. God must have favored that woman because no bullet fired at her had stopped her yet.

And Rafael moved like a shadow. The only thing Arthur couldn’t seem to focus on and keep track of. In fact, the further they went into the mines, Arthur lost sight of him altogether.

It wasn’t until the last shot had been fired and Arthur’s ears were still ringing that he went searching.

He found Sadie sitting on a dynamite crate, looking through a satchel that presumably belonged to one of the dead bodies at her feet.

“I killed seven,” she said and looked up at him.

“Nine,” he replied.

“Show-off.” Sadie dumped the contents of the satchel, toed through them with her boot.

“Where’s Rafael?”

She pointed down a corridor in the mine. There was some low and flickering lantern light on the walls, but that was all. The place was more shadow and dust than anything.

“He with Bolivar?” asked Arthur.

“Yep.”

Arthur felt panicky for some reason. It couldn’t have been about the bounty. He had enough money now. But still, he ran down that corridor, calling out. It was twisty and tight, and the air grew colder, sharper, the further in he went.

“Rafael! Rafa!”

“Yes?”

Arthur took a turn and came up short, nearly colliding into the man. He looked a little shaken, and that frightened Arthur. Arthur shifted, tried to glance around the man’s shoulder, but he couldn’t manage - the tunnel had grown too tight.

“Where’s Bolivar?” asked Arthur.

Rafael was wiping his bloody hands with a cloth, but he otherwise looked clean. He’d had the foresight to roll up his shirt sleeves. “He’s back there. He’s still alive - do not worry.”

“What’d you do to him?”

Rafael only shrugged and pushed his way past Arthur, back towards the main cavern. Arthur went forward and started hearing the whimpers, the little moans - all echoing against the rock.

When he found Bolivar, he finally felt something. Not pity, really, but something close. Arthur had seen a lot of spilled blood in his life. A lot of things he couldn’t forget, even if he wanted. This was one of those things, one of those sights he’d take with him to the grave.  He did not know how many more of these sights he could carry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have done quite a bit of research on epilepsy for this story, but if anyone sees any inaccurate details, please let me know! It's really horrifying to read up on the treatment options for epileptic people during this time period and also the way they were treated. I'm trying to stay as a historically accurate as possible.
> 
> Also, I might have another update super quickly this week, as I have the next chapter over halfway done! I felt a little more inspired this week! Not much more angst, I promise! :)
> 
> ALSO. It's so hard to write scenes in third person with two people of the same sex interacting. I'm really bad at it, so please excuse confusing pronouns and repeated name use.
> 
> Again, thanks to everyone who is still reading. You guys are lovely <3


	18. Old Sins

Bolivar couldn’t survive his injuries. He bled out within the hour, so they had no choice but to strap him to the back of Arthur’s horse and hope they could live with the smell in a few days’ time.

Rafael was not apologetic, but Sadie and Arthur didn’t push the issue, either.

The trip back into Chuparosa was long and nearly dead-silent. 

It was a relief to be around chatter again, and the town was certainly full of it when they saw Bolivar’s corpse ride in.

Arthur thought about putting up a fuss and telling Rafael they’d be taking Bolivar’s body back to the states and collecting the bounty there, but then Arthur decided he couldn’t be bothered. They took the pesos Bolivar was worth in Chuparosa, and Arthur split it all up and tried to hand Rafael his share.

“I don't want it,” he said.

“Take it.”

“No. I told you - I am not interested in the money.”

Rafael disappeared into the cantina after that. Sadie looked after him, frowning and sweating.

“I’ll go talk to him,” she said, which surprised Arthur a little.

He wasn’t really sure what to do with himself, after that. He took Hippolyta to the stables and shooed away the stablehand. He cleaned her up himself, taking great care in getting off all the blood and stink.

“Sorry, girl,” he told her.

Once she was shiny smooth and clean, it was evening time and there was nothing else to do but go drink.

He searched inside the cantina for a sight of Rafael or Sadie, but he couldn’t find them. Eventually, after another awkward exchange with the bartender, he managed to order himself a bottle of whiskey. He took it outside, where there was the chance of a breeze, and he watched the town and the dust settle for the night.

The post office was right across the way. He thought about sending that cross necklace to the girl in Armadillo. He thought about writing Mrs. Adams at Ridgewood and sending his condolences.

He did neither. He just kept drinking.

Maybe he’d live out his days here. Maybe this table would become his - the big, dumb, drunk gringo’s table. The locals would keep it clear for him, and they would pity him and sometimes ask him to run errands - kill coyotes, hunt wolves, whatever. And he’d do it until his eyesight went bad, and then he’d go to just drinking.

He'd go to seed - this phrase came back to him all of a sudden. It was something his mother used to say, usually about his father. That was a very long time ago now, and to remember it meant he was much too drunk. So he packed the whiskey away for the night and went to his room.

He fumbled with the lock a moment too long, and the door next to his opened and Rafael came out, buttoning up his shirt.

They looked at each other for a moment. Arthur’s brain was whiskey-addled and working very slow.

“Arthur,” said Rafael.

Arthur nodded back to him, and the man wandered off without another word. Arthur looked at the door he’d emerged from, and then he knocked on it.

“Come in,” said Sadie.

He opened the door slowly, peeping inside, but Sadie was only sitting atop the bed, braiding her hair. He walked in and shut the door and stared at her.

“Oh, don’t start,” she told him but she was smirking.

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“The judgment was in your eyes.”

Arthur held up his hands then kind of laughed. It felt like a very strange night, indeed. “Didn’t know you two was that friendly, is all. Took me by surprise.”

“We weren’t friendly. Until just now.” She finished with her braid and got to her feet. He was very thankful she was properly dressed. “Let’s go get a drink.”

“I’ve had enough,” said Arthur. He was swaying a bit, and things were hard to focus on.

“Well, sit with me until I’m as drunk as you.”

“Okay,” he said.

They went back outside, to the table that Arthur had decided would be _his_ table. Sadie didn’t bother pouring herself shots. She just drank straight from the bottle.

“You’re somethin’ else,” said Arthur.

“So you’ve said before.” Sadie smiled at him. It could have been the drink, that made that smile look so soft. It could have been something else, but whatever it was, it suited her.

“You and him...” Arthur scratched at his jaw, his mind drifting. “You and him... are you two, ah -”

“Gonna get married and settle down?” Sadie arched her brows and punched his arm. “You know, you really are a romantic at heart. I admire that about you.”

Arthur just shrugged, a little embarrassed, and massaged at the thumb joint on his right hand. It gave him fits, an ache so deep sometimes his thumb didn’t want to move at all.

“Why you out here with me?” Sadie asked after a while.

"You wanted a drink."

Sadie sighed.  "No - I mean, why you out in Mexico with me?"

“‘Cause you strong-armed me into it. Don’t you remember?”

“I don’t reckon anyone could strong-arm you into doin’ somethin’ you don’t want.”

“Well, that’s where you’d be mistaken. I done a lotta things I didn’t wanna do - just ‘cause someone told me to.”

Sadie thought on this a moment. Her mind no doubt wandered back some years, as did his, but neither of them spoke directly about it.

Instead, she said, “You oughta go back to Armadillo. To that girl.”

This made him laugh, but it was tired-sounding. “You think so, do you? Well, might I remind you that there’s Pinkertons in that town now. And Bill ain’t too far behind.”

“Well, then, go back and get the girl and go somewhere there ain’t Pinkertons and Bill.”

“I try not to do much kidnappin’ nowadays.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have to kidnap her. I seen the way she looks at you. I reckon she’d follow you anywhere if you just asked.”

“And you know all this from the way she looks at me, huh? Ain’t that somethin’."

“Stop bein’ a fool.”

“I just can’t seem to help it,” said Arthur. He took off his hat and wiped old grime from his forehead. The past few days were catching up to him, as was the liquor, and he yawned.

Sadie appeared to just be getting started. “You should go back - try to be happy.”

“Might I remind you that you’re the one who was so hot to get me out here in the first place. And secondly, there ain’t no future with that girl. She’s too young. And she’s got a family besides.”

“She ain’t too young. She’s a grown woman. She ain’t gonna be with that family forever, Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t feel like arguing it anymore. His shoulder was aching something awful, worse than his hands. He worked it back and forth, kneading and rolling at the muscle there, but the hurt went too deep.

“That old wound botherin’ you?” asked Sadie.

“Yeah, it acts up when rain’s comin’.” He laughed when she arched her brows. “Yeah, I know. I’m old.”

“You may be old but you ain’t dead.”

“Maybe I should be.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. Sometimes…” Arthur sighed and looked at the town, where it was dead silent and dark. He was still too drunk and wanted to talk. “Sometimes I think I should’ve died on that mountain. I was ready to, you know. All that shit we did. All that shit we saw. I told John to go ahead. I told him I couldn’t leave that money behind… but really, I just… I didn’t want to go with him. I didn’t want to… to keep goin’, I guess. I was tired. Still am.”

“You never really told us what happened up there. At least, you never told me.”

“I guess I wasn’t quite as ready as I thought I was to die. When it came down to it.”

“Maybe no one is,” said Sadie.

“Maybe.”

They went quiet for a moment, listening to the wind.

Then Sadie said, “I’m goin’ after a new bounty tomorrow. Some guy who burned down a farm, killed some honest folk. You goin’ with me?”

It seemed, from the tone of her voice, she knew his answer before he did.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“What you gonna do, then? Sit here and drink yourself silly?”

“Maybe. I ain’t decided yet.” Arthur peered over at her. “You takin’ Rafael with you?”

“You think I should?” It was rare Sadie asked for anyone else’s opinion, but when she did, she was real direct about it. She looked him square in the face, arched her eyebrows, and waited for an answer.

“I ain’t so sure. He seems unsteady, but who am I to judge?”

“I don’t think he’s bad.”

“No, I don’t neither. But just ‘cause someone ain’t bad, don’t mean they’re good.”

Sadie tilted her head allowingly, took another slug from her whiskey bottle. “I work better on my own anyway.”

“Sure,” Arthur said, but he knew better.

The next morning, Sadie was gone. And so was Rafael.

 

* * *

 

He spent five more sun and whiskey soaked days in Chuparosa.

On the fifth day, Sadie and Rafael came back to town with a bounty on the back of Sadie’s horse.

Arthur squinted at Rafael in the afternoon sun. “Guess you didn’t get to him, huh?”

The bounty was alive and breathing, wriggling on the back of the horse, cursing. Sadie backhanded him one good time before dismounting.

Rafael regarded the prisoner for a moment, then looked at Arthur and grinned. “I tried, but Mrs. Adler threatened me.”

“She’s bad to do that.” Arthur was looking at Sadie now, frowning at her expression.

“I’m gonna take him to the sheriff,” she said. “Then me and you need to talk.”

“All right.” This put a twist in Arthur’s guts, so he wandered back to the cantina to have a drink and set them straight. It didn’t help, though.

Sadie and Rafael found him after they’d deposited their bounty and collected their money. Sadie was still frowning as she took a seat.

“Javier is here,” she said.

Arthur laughed once but felt uneasy. “Javier? That can’t be. He couldn’t come back to Mexico.”

“Well, he found a way.”

Arthur looked at her for a moment, then shifted his gaze over to Rafael, who was more interested in the conversation than Arthur thought he was letting on. “You know him?”

“Not personally,” said Rafael, shrugging. “I’ve heard rumors about him, mostly. That he works for the government now. This is surprising to most - he was a bit of a revolutionary, many years ago. A friend of the people, you know. But not now.”

Arthur rubbed at his jaw. Then he cursed. “Jesus. This world gets smaller every goddamn day.”

They talked a bit more over it, but it seemed no one knew exactly where Javier was, only that he was near. Arthur went to bed that night uneasy and woke the next morning feeling downright hunted.

“I gotta leave,” he told Sadie over breakfast.

She nodded. “I know.”

They talked it through, just the two of them, for a few hours. Arthur wasn’t sure where to go that he wouldn’t run into some old memory. Sadie suggested a few places, but all of them sounded like smoke.

Then, she asked him, “Well, what place do you like most?”

This took him a moment to think over. It was a simple question, but he’d never really pondered the answer. He’d never spent much time in a place because he liked it. He was always just roaming until things went sideways and he had to move again.

He used to think his way of life - the robbing, the living in tents - was pure freedom, the only real freedom left in the country. Dutch said as much only about a million times.

But now, thinking about going straight and living as right as he could, the world seemed to open up in a different way. He could go somewhere he liked and he could just stay there. For as long as he wanted.

Or at least until someone recognized him for his old sins.

“I like the mountains,” he told Sadie.

“Go up north, then,” she replied, shrugging.

So he said that’s what he’d do.

He’d go up to West Elizabeth, through Big Valley, and then who knew?

“Maybe I’ll get all the way up to goddamn Canada and see John,” he said.

Sadie grinned a little. “He’d like that.”

It was settled just that easy. He started packing right after, but seeing as he didn’t have much to pack, it only took an hour.

Sadie sat on his bed while he worked. She said, “You oughta go through Armadillo. It’ll be on your way.”

Arthur was folding a shirt. He cut his eyes to her, gave her a look. All he said was: “Give it a rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started on the next chapter! It will hopefully be up on Saturday, as scheduled! :)
> 
> We're almost to the end of Part I, and I can't wait to start writing Part II, honestly. I hope everyone likes it and enjoys!


	19. The Pain in People

He left before the sun rose up proper, and the air was still sharp and cold. Rafael and Sadie braved the heatless desert to see him off. Rafael gave him a handshake.

“Look after her,” Arthur said, low so Sadie wouldn’t hear.

“I will try.”

Then he turned to Sadie, extended his hand, but she pulled him in for a hug, squeezed him once and then twice. “Take care of your goddamn self.”

“I will, Mrs. Adler,” he said and patted her back.

“Respond to my damn letters this time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That was that. No more fuss, which suited Arthur just fine. He mounted up on Hippolyta and headed out and felt strange, all that empty land around him and all the places he could go. It was a freedom that felt just a little disorienting.

He decided that he would go to Ridgewood first, to check in. It wasn’t so far out of his way, and it had troubled him, that business with Bill. He felt responsible in a way he wouldn’t be able to mention to Mrs. Adams, but he needed to know how they were. It was a risk he’d have to take.

It only took him a week to get there. When he did, it didn’t look any different than how he’d left it, which comforted him at first. But a place rarely reflected pain. People did that and when he went inside the house, he found Mrs. Adams in black.

He told her he was sorry, which seemed wholly inadequate.

Mrs. Adams was of hard stock, though, and she was not weepy. She told him thank you and to sit down and have some coffee, so he did.

They sat there for a while, just the two of them at the kitchen table, and Mrs. Adams talked a little about Theo, about how he came to them and how he’d seen a lot of pain in his short life and how he was with his parents now.

“But you don’t believe in all that, do you?” asked Mrs. Adams, looking at Arthur.

He scooted his coffee cup back and forth, tried to smile. “Ah, I don’t know. I ain’t sure what I believe.”

She studied him for a moment and then rolled herself a cigarette. She rolled him one, too. Once they were lit, she said, “Where’s that family at?”

“The Faynes?”

Mrs. Adams nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke.

“In Armadillo, I reckon.”

“You ain’t sure?”

“Not entirely. I been out of touch with them for a few months now.”

“Hm.” Mrs. Adams flicked some ash and took a sip of her coffee. She was staring out the window when she spoke again. “You know, Theo had stars in his eyes over that oldest girl - Constance, weren’t it?”

Arthur knew Mrs. Adams had not forgotten the girl’s name - she was too sly - but he just nodded. “Yes, that’s her name.”

“I thought you had some stars in your eyes, too, you know.”

“Me?” Arthur laughed. “I think I’m a bit too old for that nonsense.”

Mrs. Adams just hummed. He could tell she disagreed. She took a few more sips of coffee, finished off her cigarette, and then said, “Ain’t no one too old for that, Arthur.”

 

* * *

 

He stayed on for a few days, helping out around the farm. Bill had robbed them of most of their valuables and killed two of their horses, out of meanness alone. The whole business made Arthur feel sick. It made him remember things he’d fought hard to forget, but memory wasn’t so easily shaken. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

When Arthur finally decided to move on, Mrs. Adams handed him a little pouch. She said, “That’s for the girl, when you see her.”

“The girl?”

Mrs. Adams gave him a look, snorted. “Constance.”

“I ain’t plannin’ on seein’ her again.”

“That’d be a damn shame.”

Arthur sighed and started to open the pouch, curious despite himself. But Mrs. Adams smacked his hand, told him it wasn’t his to look at.

“Well, what the hell is it, then?”

“Something Theo made. I thought the girl might want it.”

Arthur only nodded. Who was he to argue it with her? Mrs. Adams gave him a look again, smiled just a bit. Women were always giving him these kinds of looks - like they could see right through him. Maybe they could.

“You take care,” he said. “Hire some men to watch the place.”

“Ain’t got the money for that,” she replied but he’d left some for her, where she’d find it once he was long gone.

“Sure,” he said and then he was off again.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps he’d been planning to go back to Armadillo since he first set out from there. Perhaps detouring to Ridgewood was less about him being a good man and more about him being selfish.

As usual, the why didn’t matter so much. The end result was the same.

He pointed Hippolyta east and went right for Armadillo.

It was stupid to go back, on many levels, but he said to himself he needed supplies for the long journey ahead. He could scout out the town before he went in, and see if maybe the Pinkertons had passed on, towards Fort Mercer and Bill. He could get in and out without much fuss. Could leave Mrs. Adams’ gift with Sneaky, to pass on to the girl.

Then he got to the town, found it empty of lawmen, and he decided he’d just make sure the Faynes were okay. The children, especially. He’d ask around, so he went to the saloon first.

Sneaky nearly voided himself on the spot, just as soon as he set eyes on Arthur. “I-I-I gave her that goddamn letter. Didn’t take a cent out of it - not one cent.”

“I ain’t here to kill you or nothin’. Christ.” Arthur leaned heavily against the bar, looked around. The place was dead-empty and boiling with a full day’s worth of heat. “Get me a whiskey.”

Sneaky’s hands were shaking as he poured. “Honestly, I mean. Honestly - I ain’t done nothin’ to her. You know, her troubles are her own. You know - I swear on my mother - God rest her soul - I have tried to help that girl. Truly!”

“Help her?” Arthur frowned and took the shot Sneaky slid him. “What’s wrong with her?”

Sneaky looked around, worked his hands. “Ah... you don’t... you don’t correspond with her?”

“Don’t answer a question with a question unless you’re tryin’ to irritate me.”

“All right, all right!” Sneaky backed up, putting a good distance between them, so Arthur could not lean over the bar and grab him by the lapels again. “I... she’s, uh, unwell.”

“Unwell? What’s she got?”

“Fits.”

“Fits.” Arthur stared at the man a moment. “I can’t quite reach you where you’re at, but might I remind you, I can shoot you just fine from where I’m standin’.”

“Well, shit! I don’t know the right term for it! Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to be unhelpful. It’s just... she fainted two weeks ago in Herbert Moon’s store. But she jerked around a lot, too. Scared everyone half to death. Ain’t seen her about much since. And you know, there was that trouble with Wallace but nothin’ ever came of that ‘cause I told him you’d shoot him dead if he did anythin’ to her -”

“Wallace?”

“Wallace Reeders - he’s a real idiot, you know. He was sayin’ how he was gonna turn her into a sportin’ girl for the town. And some of the others liked the idea ‘cause you know our last sportin’ girl up and died in that Scarlet Fever outbreak. Belle was her name. She was a beaut, that’s for sure, but I think Constance got a leg up on her in the looks department - I mean no offense, of course - but I told Wallace she was yours. I told him you’d taken to her and wouldn’t be none too happy ‘bout her sportin’.”

“Where is this Wallace feller now?”

“You can’t kill him. He’s the only stage coach driver we got.”

“I ain’t gonna kill him. I just wanna speak with him, is all.”

“He took his stage someplace. I ain’t sure when he’ll be back.”

Arthur sighed and asked for another whiskey. After he’d drank that down, he told Sneaky he wanted his old room back - just for the night.

Sneaky said he’d kept it open for him, just in case.

Then, Arthur put on his hat and went walking. He wasn’t really sure if he wanted to spot Constance or not, but Mrs. Fayne was the one who did the spotting. She hollered at him from across the street and then ran right over to him, beaming.

“Mr. Callahan! My goodness! You’re back. And bearded!”

He ran a hand over his face, a little embarrassed. He’d let the beard get out of hand. “Ah, yes.”

“It looks good,” she said and smiled at him, but he knew she was just being polite. “Constance will be very pleased you’ve returned. And the children, too - of course.”

He cleared his throat and resituated his hat. He wasn’t sure what exactly flickered across his face, but he didn’t want Mrs. Fayne studying it too hard. “Is she... is - ah, Constance well?”

Mrs. Fayne’s eyes only shifted a little, but she kept that smile in place. “Why don’t you come ask her yourself? I was just going home to have dinner. Constance was making a roast tonight, I believe.”

“Oh, no. No. I couldn’t impose.”

“It wouldn’t be an imposition at all! In fact, we owe you a great deal. Having you over for a meal is the least we can do -”

“I already ate,” he lied, with no real grace.

But Mrs. Fayne had too much class to call him on it. She only nodded. “Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps.” Arthur shifted on his feet again, felt awkward. “I... I ain’t plannin’ on stayin’ in town long, though. I was just... passin’ through.”

Mrs. Fayne’s smile did waver now. She said, “Oh. Where are you headed, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Up north, I guess. It’s still pretty wild country up there, ‘round Big Valley. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout maybe... I don’t know really - maybe buyin’ some property. Tryin’ to settle somewhere. I reckon I’m gettin’ too old to keep wanderin’.”

Mrs. Fayne’s smile had dried up completely now. She looked to the ground for a moment, a frown appearing on her brow, and for the first time, he saw some resemblance between her and her daughter.

A moment of silence passed, and then Arthur cleared his throat. “Mrs. Fayne? Are you all right?”

She blinked and glanced up. “Yes. I... well, actually, Mr. Callahan - may I speak with you frankly for a moment?”

“Sure.” Arthur was real uncomfortable by now, but Mrs. Fayne tried smiling again, motioned towards the saloon steps for him to take a seat and he did.

She settled beside him, smoothing out her skirts. “Are you fond of my daughter?”

Arthur coughed to buy himself some time, but time wasn’t the problem. He just didn’t have a good answer - no amount of time would fix that. “Ah - yes. She’s a nice girl.”

Mrs. Fayne sighed, a quiet little gust of air. Then she fixed her eyes on him, those big and near-teary eyes. “She is a nice girl, my Constance. She can cook and clean and sew and do just about anything she puts her mind to - and she can do it with care.”

Arthur nodded along, feeling lost.

“Do you see what I’m getting at, Mr. Callahan?”

“No, ma’am, I ain’t sure I do.”

Mrs. Fayne frowned again, looking so much like Constance that it shook something from him. “Well - I... my daughter isn’t well, Mr. Callahan. That is, I suppose, what I’m trying to say.”

Arthur shifted on the steps, the old boards groaning with his joints. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She has these spells - this loss of consciousness. Dr. Deakins calls it epilepsy. It’s quite horrible, but she’s had them since she was a little girl. Sometimes she can go years between the spells, but she’s had two very recently. One a few days after her father and brother died and another just a few weeks ago - here in Armadillo.”

“Do they... are they painful?”

“I don’t believe so - she’s never complained of pain, except maybe a headache after. But it’s hard to tell with her. She isn’t one to fuss.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” Mrs. Fayne looked at him again, arched her brows. “I think perhaps maybe this air doesn’t agree with her, Mr. Callahan - since she’s had two of these spells since we’ve been here, within a few months of each other. She certainly does not like it here. She’s very unhappy.”

Arthur cleared his throat, leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Okay. Do you... are you wantin’ me to escort her some place, then?”

Mrs. Fayne sighed again, shook her head. She scooted closer to him on the step, but it barely creaked with her slight weight. “Yes, but... well, you see - my daughter, despite her... affliction - she can do well all the things I mentioned earlier. Those skills... they could be much needed in starting a new home. In settling some place new.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, trying to follow her line of thought. “I think you’re gonna have to just come out and say what you’re wantin’ to say, Mrs. Fayne.”

She chewed at her lips for a moment, nodded absently. Her eyes drifted from his. “My daughter is twenty-three. She’s of the marrying age.”

Arthur had no choice but to laugh. Once he started, he had a hard time stopping, but Mrs. Fayne didn’t crack a grin, only deepened her frown. He finally pulled himself together and said, “My God. You’re serious.”

“Very.”

“Mrs. Fayne. I... well, firstly - I’m well past the marrying age. And secondly, I ain’t the type you’d want married to your little girl.”

“On the contrary, you’re exactly the type. You... you can keep her safe, Mr. Callahan - and that isn’t something... well, I’m ill-equipped for the job. As much as it pains me to admit.” Her eyes turned real teary then, but she blinked fast and looked away, cleared her throat. “You could get her out of this town. And keep her safe. I think you’re exactly the type I’d want her to marry.”

“You don’t know me, Mrs. Fayne,” he said, as gently as he could.

The woman wouldn’t hear of it, though. She shook her head. “Would you at least think it over?”

“Ain’t nothin’ to think over, Mrs. Fayne -”

“Have I misread your affection towards her?” She peered at him. “Have I?”

Arthur cleared his throat again, looked away from her. Then back. He was getting mighty uncomfortable beneath her gaze. “I think she’s a nice girl - I told you that.”

“You have no romantic feelings towards her at all?”

“I... you... well, I -” Arthur laughed again, helpless. “Affection is one thing, Mrs. Fayne. Marriage is another.”

“Will you think on it, at least? Please, Mr. Callahan? I know we’ve asked too much of you already, but please - just think on it.”

“I...” He made the mistake of looking at her again. All at once, she reminded him a bit of his mother. Only his mother had not fought so hard for her own flesh and blood. His mother had not cared so much for his own safety.

Arthur looked down the street, until he spotted the boarding house. Was Constance in there now? Cooking a roast and thinking life was grand? Did she have any idea what her mother was trying to do?

He looked at Mrs. Fayne again, into those genuine eyes and felt himself sigh. He was bone-tired.  He said, finally, “I’ll think on it, sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for any errors in here! I'm pooped today but wanted to get this chapter up and out since it's Saturday!
> 
> I'm nervous about this one! Nervous about the next few chapters, actually. But I'm gonna just try to roll with what I wanted to write from the get-go! Hopefully I can pull it off without things feelings too OOC. :P I've always been weirdly attracted to arranged marriage fics, that kind of genre. It's one of those things that feel nuts IRL but is fun to explore in fiction. I guess it's just a way to force characters together and watch them adjust and TRY to become a team. Also, this kind of thing wasn't unusual in this time period, which is crazy but wonderful for the purpose of this story.
> 
> Anyway, I hope everyone has had a great week! And I'm sorry in advance if my comment replies for last chapter sound short or weird. Again - super wiped today! I'm trying to quit drinking energy drinks and detoxing hard!


	20. Gazes and Gun Barrels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late!

Mother was only a little late for dinner, and the children were excited to see her. They chattered at her nonstop all through the main course and on into dessert, and they didn’t seem to notice the absent way she smiled, the distance in her eyes - but Constance did.

After desert, Mother told the children to go upstairs and clean up for bed. She had to tell them twice, and the threat of a third time was what finally got them moving.

Mrs. Byrd, who refused to eat with them, came in to deposit her dirty dishes. She paused to tell Constance the roast was dry. But then she said the pie was decent, which was a very big compliment from her.

The children had made quite the mess this evening, so Constance began mopping down the table, sweeping up stray beans and pieces of carrot. Mother stood up and went for the dishes.

“That’s my job, Mother,” said Constance.

“Let me help.” She was already up to her elbows in soapy water and trying very hard to sound casual, Constance thought. Then, her mother came out with it. “Mr. Callahan is back in town.”

Something in Constance’s stomach dropped and left her feeling unbalanced. She bent beneath the table, to check for more stray food. “Oh - he is?”

“Yes. I spoke with him briefly.”

Constance hesitated under the table a moment longer and tried to think up something to say. “Is he well?”

“He seems to be.”

Constance had nothing else to offer. She straightened up and started drying the dishes her mother had washed. She hoped this would be the end of conversation.

Mother was looking at her now, carefully. “Mr. Callahan told me he would be traveling north soon. Up into West Elizabeth - perhaps further. He said he wanted to settle out there.”

When he’d first left, Constance had no real reason to expect him to return. But maybe there had been something - a small, girlish hope that refused to shrivel. Now, though, after all these months, after he’d finally returned, that hope seemed to finally be drying up.

She did not think he’d ever come back once he’d made up to the mountains. To cool air and God’s real country.

Who would ever return to this godless place?

“I see,” was all Constance could manage.

“Would you like to... go with him?”

She looked over at her mother sharply and then laughed, for it had to be a joke, but her mother was not laughing with her. “All of us?”

“No.” Mother wiped her hands off on the drying cloth and put it aside. “No - just you, darling.”

“How would that work?”

“You could marry him.”

Constance laughed again. It came out strange and uneven, a rusty laugh. “I... I don’t - you can’t be serious, Mother.”

“I am very serious.” She looked at Constance square, only a hint of nerves in the corners of her eyes. “He’s a good man, Mr. Callahan - you could do a lot worse, my love -”

“I don’t know him - and neither do you.”

Mother sighed and pushed some hair out of her eyes. She looked around the kitchen for a moment, perhaps a bit desperately, as if she hoped something or someone would appear and give her an answer. But then she looked back to her daughter and said, “I knew your father for a month before we married. We grew to know each other. To love each other. It’s the way of things sometimes - you know this.”

Constance only knew of it in a vague sense, the ways she knew the planets moved and heaven stretched somewhere overhead - but she did not think on these things often. There were always other, more pressing and earthly things to think about.

Mother took a slow and careful step towards her. “You’re unhappy here - and this... well, it could be a way out. Would you think it over, at least?”

She looked at her mother, felt a wave rising up inside her. Something overwhelming. Something that would hit her with force and send her lungs burning for air. “What’s there to think over? It isn’t my decision, is it? Because it all comes down to him - whether or not he wants me. Or whether or not you’ll try... try and ship me off with someone else -”

Mother flinched. “That isn’t what I’m doing, Constance.”

“Isn’t it?”

Mother must have felt some kind of wave inside her, too. She seemed to be struggling against it, fighting for words and air, until it all came rushing forward. “I’m trying to protect you! I can’t protect you on my own - do you understand that? I wish I could - but I _can’t_ , Constance. I don’t know how. Do you understand that?”

Had it been another night, months earlier - or perhaps just a night where Constance did not feel so swept away - she would have felt sorry for her mother. The tears in her eyes would have moved Constance. She would have calmed and taken her mother’s hand and thought how horrible it must be for her, too. But it wasn’t another night, and Constance couldn't muster any of those softer feelings. “I don’t need protecting, Mother. I’m not an invalid.”

“No, but... but you do need someone to watch over you - ”

“Can’t God do that? Isn’t that His job?”

Mother paled fast, and Constance knew a lecture would be coming on blasphemy. So she left before it could begin.

 

* * *

 

She forced her siblings to bed, and then laid down herself, Gideon’s knees already in her back.

She did not hear Mother come to bed, even though it was very late. Was she still downstairs? Praying for Constance’s soul or her cooperation?

But then - was her mother’s proposition so terrible?

This - rather than her little brother's knees - was what kept Constance from sleep.

More than anything, she wanted to leave this horrible town. Her blood was in the water now, and there were mean creatures circling. She was afraid and miserable and rubbed raw by the grit and heat of this place, by these people.

She let herself imagine cool mornings and dew. Mountains and green grass. Snow in the winter. But then, there would be more to it than that, wouldn’t there? There would be a man to tend.

Houses and children and men of blood relation - she was used to taking care of these things. But there were other expectations in being a wife - and these expectations kept her awake, too.

She must have drifted a little for she dreamed of a mountain pass and a cabin in a haze of green. She dreamed of rivers and rain. But all the while, she knew where she really was - in that dusty and hot room in Mrs. Byrd’s boarding house.  Still in Armadillo.  Still in the desert, wandering.

 

* * *

 

 

As promised, Arthur had a long think on it - three days’ worth of thinking, in fact. And by the end, he was so tangled up in thought that he wasn’t sure he’d ever get free.

He thought hard about just leaving. But he was a fool and to leave would be a wise thing to do - much too wise for him. So he stayed on. He drank a lot of whiskey and wrote a bunch of nonsense in his journal and nothing cleared anything up.

On the fourth day, he woke up and thought about shaving but only wound up trimming his beard. He thought this to be a good compromise, though to what, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Then, he went across the street - to the boarding house.

He knocked a little too hard and perhaps that was why the proprietor answered the door in such a huff. But she did appear to be a huffy sort of woman by nature alone. She glared at him and took up the whole doorway but she was so short he could see clean over her head, into the house.

“What you want?” she asked.

Arthur took his hat off - a show of manners to maybe settle her down a little. “I’d like to see Miss Fayne, ma’am.”

“Which Miss Fayne?”

Arthur fought very hard against the urge to roll his eyes. “Miss Constance Fayne, if you’d be so kind.”

The proprietor did not like this at all - either his request or the way in which he’d made it. Perhaps both. But she grunted a few times, worked her mouth, then said, “All right - fine. Come in, I suppose. You can wait in the parlor - but don’t touch nothin’! I know everythin’ in that room and its place. I may be old but I got me some eyes like a hawk.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, ma’am.”

The parlor smelled like old roses and dust. There were little trinkets everywhere, covered in dust.  Lace curtains eaten by moths.  Spiders dangling from the lamps. The proprietor left him in there with one more warning and a nasty look. Then she hustled down the hall, grunting the whole way.

Arthur inspected one of the paintings on the wall - a picture of a kettle overflowing with flowers.  He felt big and clumsy in this delicate little room, as out of place as a bull in a china shop.  It was hotter in here than it was outside, too - and airless.  He tugged furiously at his collar and wandered over to the grandfather clock in the corner.  It was probably the only thing of value in the room. Certainly the only thing that wasn’t broken or covered in cobwebs. Arthur listened to it tick, waited for the chime of the hour, the tune it’d play.

But then someone cleared their throat, and he glanced away, saw Constance standing in the doorway.

She wasn’t the same girl he’d left a few months ago. Her skin - still bronzed with some natural, unfading color - had taken a sickly shift, and there were hollows beneath her cheekbones, bags beneath her eyes.

“Mr. Callahan,” she said.

He stared at her a moment too long, until he saw a flash of something in her eyes - not hurt, exactly, but perhaps shame. He quickly averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “Mr. Callahan, is it?”

“You’d prefer Mr. Morgan?”

This unsettled him - in more ways than one - but it had been inevitable, her finding out who he really was.

“I’d prefer Arthur," he said.

“All right.” Constance walked into the room, sat herself on the sofa with her back straight, despite it all. She smoothed out her skirts then looked right at him and said, “It’s good to see you.”

He leaned against the wall, near a window that overlooked the street. A cloud of dust passed by, raining softly against the glass.  He shouldn't be here.  He should have left or maybe never even come back. “Is it?”

Constance frowned. “Yes.”

Then came a terrible silence between them. The grandfather clock finally chimed, but the tune only seemed to make their quiet seem louder and stiffer.

Arthur’s thoughts were getting away from him again, coming too fast and twisting all together. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. He realized he’d have to be cruel - there was still a little glimmer of something in the girl’s eyes. She didn’t wear the revulsion he thought she should, at knowing his true identity. So he’d have to make it achingly clear.

Before he could, she said, “The children will be pleased to see you.”

And he asked, like a reflex and a fool, “How are they?”

She smiled again, but it still didn’t quite touch her eyes. “They’re well, I suppose. Gideon has decided he wants to be like you - a bounty hunting cowboy, he says.”

“Is that what he thinks I am?”

“Yes.”

Arthur gave her a hard look, tried to chase away that stupid lingering innocence in her gaze. He tried to burn it right out of her. “I pray to God he ain’t nothin’ like me. That’d be a damn shame.”

She didn’t shy away from him, only stared right back. “I don’t think so. If he stops to help families in need as you do -”

“I do one goddamn decent thing - after lifetime of indecent things, mind you - and you won’t let me forget it. I’m beginnin’ to regret it, you know.”

To the girl’s credit, she didn’t flinch. Only looked to her lap, at the hands she had folded there. It was quiet for a moment, and he thought maybe he’d finally succeeded in something. But then she looked back up at him, her face unchanged. She had a deep and lonely kind of gaze, like staring into a night so thick with shadow you couldn’t tell which way was up or down.

He looked away, to the window again. “You know - your momma’s got some crazy goddamn ideas in her head. I reckon she’s mentioned them to you.”

“Yes. She’s mentioned it.”

“It’s crazy.” Arthur crossed his arms tight, his shoulder still digging into the wall and his eyes still on the street. “Crazy.”

“Is it?”

This might have been the only thing that could have got him to look back into those lonely eyes. But he did and saw her question was serious, as were the implications behind it. “Yes," he said, very hard.  "It is undoubtedly the craziest notion I heard of in a while."

The girl looked to her lap again. “Is the prospect of marrying me so abhorrent?”

Arthur laughed and just shook his head. “I know you hate it here, Constance. I do. But there are worse things out there than what you got now.”

“Don’t pretend to know what’s best for me, Arthur - I am perfectly capable of making those decisions myself.”

This little show of defiance kicked something up in him, and so he arched his brows at her, in that way he knew got a rise out of folk. “Oh? And you think hitchin' yourself to some broke down outlaw, gettin’ dragged all over creation - you think that’s what’s best for you?”

She didn’t fall to anger, though, only simmered in it. She glared at him for a moment then looked away again. “Getting out of here is what’s best for me.”

“You’re a stubborn girl. And more foolish than I took you for.”

This got to her, though. Her head snapped up like she was caught on a line, and there was real fire in her eyes. “Why did you even come back here to speak to me, then?”

“I ain’t sure.”

She stared at him for only a moment, and then, like a light being doused, her anger was gone. That hollow and lonely look was back in her eyes, like staring down the barrel of a gun - a tunnel, with nothing happy at the end of it.

When those eyes welled up, he knew it wasn’t just from the things he’d said. This was from a weight she’d been carrying for some time now, and she was finally collapsing under it.

She turned her face from him, and he felt bad all at once. So bad that he walked over and sat on the couch near her and said, “Don't... don’t cry.” He touched her arm and coaxed her into looking at him again, and when she finally did, her first tear fell and rolled down her cheek and he swiped it away with a rough thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he said and another tear fell and he wiped that one away, too. “I’m sorry.”

She leaned into his hand, just for a moment - like she found some kind of peace in it - and it had been a long time indeed since anyone had leaned into his touch.

Those few tears seemed to be all she’d give up. She didn’t sob or sniffle, only looked at him until he couldn’t stand it. Until he leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, where the salt of her tear-tracks still lingered. He tasted her there and then her lips, and she opened for him with a little shiver, with her wet eyelashes brushing against his face. When he felt her tongue touch against his, with just a bit hesitance, he couldn’t help but grab her, pull her closer. And she allowed this, too. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, put her fingers in his hair, and her head fell back and she let out a beautiful sigh as his lips skimmed down her throat.

She was soft in his arms but not pliant. There was some grit to her, some strength even in this. She held him tight, her fingers shifting and digging in. Like she was staking some claim. Like he was already hers.

He pulled away sharply.

He grabbed her wrists and pushed them down to her sides and held them there and looked at her and shook her just a little. “Listen to me - I ain’t your ticket out of here. I ain’t good for you. You hearin’ me?”

She nodded and a few more tears shook loose, so he had to kiss those away, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So this chapter was a devil and I was feeling under the weather this past week. I'm very sorry for not being able to maintain the update schedule, but I feel better so it should be business as usual this week!
> 
> Probably one more chapter in Part I, btw :)
> 
> I'm getting very excited for Part II, which is what I envisioned writing from the start - so finding a lot of inspiration again! Thank you to everyone who is still reading/commenting/hanging in <3 
> 
> FYI - this chapter was inspired by two amazing movie scenes. The phone/kiss scene from It's A Wonderful Life and the gun/crying scene at the very end of Sicario. The first one I mentioned is probably the most romantic, angsty scene I've ever seen on film and the second one is just super dark and disturbing lol This is a not-so-subtle segue into me asking for good movie recommendations :P


	21. In Twilight, In Sunrise

They were married within the week, in a little church outside of town.

Constance wore Mrs. Byrd’s wedding dress, even though it was moth-eaten and ill-fitting. But her mother had pinned it as best she could. The evening before the ceremony, while her mother had been working on the dress, Constance had found the courage to ask her about the wedding night.

“Just offer yourself to him,” her mother had said, pins in her mouth. “Mr. Callahan will know what to do from there.”

“Will it hurt?” she’d asked.

“Mr. Callahan seems a gentle man, darling.” But her mother did not even know his real name, nor the sins of his past.

The ceremony itself moved quickly, mainly because the church was boiling hot and the minister looked to be on the edge of collapse. He kept pausing to take big and shuddering breaths, to mop down his forehead with a handkerchief that was sopping wet by the end of the vows.

“And now... now I pronounce you - good Lord almighty, this heat. Now I pronounce you... man and wife,” he huffed, and this was how they were married under God.

“You all right there?” Arthur asked the minister, eyeing him warily.

The minister waved his wet hanky, gave a weak smile. He was leaning heavily on the podium. “Oh, yes, yes. The heat... I’m afraid it disagrees with me terribly.”

“You picked a perfect spot to live, then.”

The minister only smiled, too fevered with heat stroke to take any meaning from the words. They moved outside before he could collapse, and in the blindness of the afternoon sun, as Mother was fussing over the wobbling minister, Arthur leaned into Constance and said, very quietly, “You ain’t gotta move rooms or nothin’. You can keep on stayin’ with your family, if you want.”

This suggestion confused her. “We’re married now. I stay with you.”

He stared at her a moment, squinting in the sunlight without the shade of his hat. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

After they’d moved the minister back into town, Arthur told her he had something to show her. He took her around the back of the saloon, towards the livery, and he pulled her to a stop.

“Here it is,” he said and there it was, the wagon that would take her to more new country.

She hadn’t realized how vast the world was until now. How it seemed an endless stretch. She wondered if they would keep going and going until they reached the ocean. And then perhaps they could get a boat and travel even further. Until they landed on the same spot they stood now, after years of wandering.

That thought gave her some strange kind of comfort.

Anywhere you went, you could always walk back.

“I got you a trunk,” said Arthur. He’d been looking at her all throughout her inner musings. She realized it only now, the weight of his stare.

“Why?” she asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well. I thought you might like some things. Some extra clothes and such. For the journey. I know all your stuff got stole.”

Her mind clicked over this, the cogs not turning so smoothly. “How could I afford these things?”

“You know I got a lil’ money.”

Her mind was working faster now, building steam. This money he had. Enough to buy a wagon and horse. Enough to make him feel confident about traveling an undetermined amount of miles. Enough to buy a plot of land, if he found one he liked.

It seemed more than a little but she knew better than to ask.

She only nodded and looked at the wagon again. How far away from her family would it take her?

The children had not taken to the news well. At first, they’d been excited by it all - Arthur’s return, his inclusion into the family. But eventually, Mother had told them that Constance would be leaving - and she’d be leaving without them.

Faith, rather than her sister, had started crying first, but Grace quickly followed suit. Gideon had only looked at Constance, like maybe he hoped she would contradict their mother. When she hadn't, the tears in his eyes had hardened. "Why?" was all he'd asked her.

She hadn’t been able to explain it to him. How could he understand? He couldn’t, and she didn’t want him to. She didn’t want him to know anymore of the ugliness in this world.

Now, standing by this wagon, she told Arthur, “The children hate me.”

“Nah, they don’t hate you. They hate me. I’m the one takin’ their sister away.”

She looked over at him. He was dressed up as much as she’d ever seen him - black trousers and a white dress shirt so clean she suspected he’d never worn it before. Without his hat, he seemed a little shy. He wouldn’t look back at her.

“They could never hate you,” she said.

He laughed once, then shrugged. Finally, he met her eyes. “They’ll forgive you.”

She tried to smile. “I hope so.”

 

* * *

 

Six days earlier, they’d come to marriage agreements in Mrs. Byrd’s dusty parlor, after the grandfather clock had chimed many times and sunset shadows were climbing down the walls.

“It ain’t gonna be easy livin’,” he’d told her. “I’m a wanted man. I’ll always be lookin’ over my shoulder.”

“I’m not looking for easy living.”

They’d been staring straight ahead, watching dust moats in the evening light, but watching each other, too, from the corner of their eyes. Constance had seen him nod.

“All right, then,” he’d said.

Somehow, she’d fought hard for a plan she’d despised only a few days earlier, and she’d won. She’d worn him down.  All of his arguments against it had finally given out.

Now, they were back in the boarding house, climbing the stairs together - as man and wife.

For a week, Constance had been afraid Arthur would simply disappear. The promise he’d made to her had been given when her cheeks were still wet with tears, her lips still swollen from his kiss. But he’d kept to his word, albeit reluctantly, and now, as they made the climb to the new room Mrs. Byrd had prepared for them, it was Constance who wanted to disappear.

Her family was only one level above her, and she wanted to run to them, to shut herself in that room and not come out. But she didn’t. She followed her new husband into their new room.

It was dusty, of course, but Mrs. Byrd had started a little fire for them, turned the lamps up to a low glow. The bedding on the mattress looked surprisingly clean and crisp, but at the sight of the bed, Constance’s thoughts went hazy and she wanted to run again.

“It’s certainly... pink,” said Arthur, after a long pause.

It was. The covers, the pillows, even the wallpaper - everything was rose-colored.

Constance pulled the door shut behind them, so she would no longer be tempted to dart out of it. “I suppose pink is a romantic color."

“I-I don’t know ‘bout such things.” Arthur was carrying a trunk filled with his belongings, moving it from his room in the saloon to this one. He dropped it to the floor with a thud, kicked it against the wall.

“I’m going... I’m going to change into my nightclothes,” said Constance.

Arthur glanced at her, then away. “Ah, okay. You want me to leave?”

“No. I’ll change behind the dressing screen.” She inched over to her own trunk, which she’d moved in the day before. She found her nightgown and quickly dipped out of his sight. It gave her some semblance of privacy, a moment to collect herself.

She had a great deal of trouble trying to get out of the wedding gown, but she couldn’t bear to ask Arthur for help so she managed on her own. Then she put on her nightclothes, with her hands trembling.

When she reemerged, Arthur was standing by the window, peering outside with a frown.

“Do you see something?” she asked.

“No, I’m just paranoid, I reckon. Thought I -” He broke off when he glanced at her. He quickly looked back to the window, cleared his throat.

“Thought you what?”

“Nothin’.” He leaned against the wall, kept his eyes averted.

She looked down at her nightgown. It was old-fashioned, something Mother had bought her at the general store. Something like the one she’d had before their things were stolen. It came all the way to her ankles and covered her arms. Did he think it was prudish?

She stood there for a moment, shifting her feet and hearing the floorboards creak. “Arthur?”

“Hm?” He was still peering out the window.

She took a few hesitant steps towards him, kept quiet until he looked over at her. “Are you tired?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, just watched her as she inched closer. She paused when there was only a few inches between them. She thought he might take her into his arms, kiss her, but he stayed still, leaning against that wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

She looked down again, too shy to meet his eyes. Then she began to unbutton her nightgown, very slowly.

His hands shot out immediately, catching hold of her wrists. “What’re you doin’?”

She glanced up at him, her cheeks hot. He was frowning. “I... did you want to... do this?” She tried to motion at her buttons, but he was still holding tight to her wrists.

“No,” he said and let go of her. Then he shook his head, still frowning, and did up the buttons she’d managed to work free. “No. Christ.”

She was baffled, utterly embarrassed. Nearly on the verge of tears, but she knew that would only make things worse. “Is there something wrong?”

He looked at her, shook his head again. “I ain’t the kind to take from a woman what she don’t want to give.”

“I do -”

“No, you don’t.” His eyes were reflecting the firelight, but he didn’t seem angry. Only tired.

“I… it’s only natural, on a wedding night…”

“Ain’t nothin’ real natural ‘bout this situation. Not really. I weren’t even expectin’ you to…” His gaze drifted, along with his voice. Then he cleared his throat again.

She felt stripped bare for no real reason. She should be grateful that he had declined, but all she felt was silly. All she wanted was a moment to herself, and her mind worked hard to find an excuse. The best she could come up with was: “I forgot something in my room. My old room, I mean. Excuse me.”

Arthur didn’t press for details, and she quickly left the room. But she couldn’t make the climb to her family’s room. It was late. They would all be up there. So she just stood in the hall for a moment and cried a little, silently. Then, after she’d dried her eyes, she came back into the room.

Arthur had already stripped down to his union suit. It was dark red and worn in places, in need of some stitching. He glanced at her, and did not ask why she’d left for something and come back empty-handed. He just scratched at his jaw. “I can… I can sleep on the floor, if you want.”

“No,” she said and was surprised to find her voice so steady. “You’re my husband now. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t share a bed.”

He looked at her only for a moment and said, “I’m sleepin’ on the floor.”

There was no more room for discussion on the matter. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket and settled down, disappeared out of sight.

She felt stuck to the spot, awkward even outside his view. But after a while, she forced herself to move. She turned down the lamps, until the only light came from the fireplace, and she climbed into the bed.

She stared at the ceiling for a long time, unable to find sleep. It was the first time in years she’d slept in a bed, without the dig of her brother’s knees in her back.

 

* * *

 

She woke to the sound of giggling and Gideon’s face, close to hers.

“Morning, sister,” he said, grinning.

She blinked a few times, a little disoriented, and sat up. Arthur was on the floor with the girls, a map spread between them. He was showing them the path he’d picked, the stops along the way, and they listened, starry-eyed.

“And by the time we get up to Strawberry,” he said, “I reckon then we’ll go on up through Big Valley and see where we settle from there. It’s beautiful country up there. Cleanest air I ever breathed.”

“How far away is it?” asked Faith. “Could we come visit?”

“‘Course you could. Ain’t nothin’ too far now. Not with trains.” He smiled at her, then felt Constance’s eyes on him. When he looked over, that smile was still there in his eyes, lingering softly.

She looked back at her brother and grabbed him, hugged him close. He let her, at first - and that meant something. Her squirmy little brother who couldn’t stand to be held, even as an infant. He let their embrace linger for a full minute, until he groaned.

“Let go!”

She did, reluctantly, and he scrambled off the bed before she could get any wild ideas again.

“Arthur says we can come visit you,” said Faith, beaming.

“He did?”

“Yeah,” said Grace. “He said we could take a train! He said you wouldn’t be too far away!”

“We won’t,” he said, folding up the map. “Now, you’d better get downstairs for breakfast or your mother’s gonna come lookin’ for you.”

The children fell in line, as angelic as could be when Arthur was the one giving the orders. Gideon and Grace disappeared through the door first, but Faith lingered just a moment, glanced back at them.

“You aren’t leaving today, are you?” she asked.

“No. Tomorrow,” said Arthur.

“You won’t leave without saying goodbye?”

“Of course not,” Constance said.

That was all it took for her. Faith smiled and disappeared out of the room, trailing after her siblings.

 

* * *

 

As planned, they left the next morning before the sun had come up.  The air was still sharp and bitter-cold, and the sky was barely blue.  But Constance's family woke to see her off.  The children hugged her, even Gideon.  He was the one who held on this time, and he kept holding on, until Constance finally pulled away.  She kissed the top of his head and said, "Watch after Mother and the girls."

"I will."

She didn't want to cry, so she moved on, kissing Faith and Grace and then hugging her mother tight.  It all felt surreal, like she hadn't fully wakened yet.

But then Arthur helped her up onto the wagon and he climbed in the seat beside her, took the reins.  He pushed the horses forward - two new ones but this hardly registered.  She looked back over her shoulder, at her little family.  They huddled close and waved goodbye to her, and she waved back, until lost sight of them in the dark.

By the time the sun finally rose, they were moving up a steep path cut into a mesa, and Constance saw the land below them, all at once.  The light chasing away the shadows.  The world was clear and large, overwhelming from up high.  She could see the coil of the San Luis, a snake of water cutting through all the desert.  She could see land on the other side which was Mexico.  She could see Lake Don Julio as it shimmered like a silver dollar in the sunlight, and beside it, lay Armadillo.  The town looked tiny and neat, a cluster of small boxes.  With such distance, it did not seem so horrible.

Arthur let the horses rest at the top of the mesa, when the land had flattened out again, and it gave Constance the opportunity to stare.  She felt fully awake now, rooted in reality.  She couldn't stop staring at the town.

"You okay?" Arthur asked.

The sun had finally climbed its way high into the sky.  It had burned out all the morning colors and left behind only blue.  Below, the land was starting to churn with dust and heat.  A great cloud passed over Armadillo, hiding it from view, and finally, the spell was broken.

Constance looked away.  She nodded at Arthur and tried to smile.  "I'm okay."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW! So it's technically still Saturday where I'm at - but I'm cutting it close. I'd been working on the chapter throughout the week, but today, as I was editing it, I just decided it didn't work. I hated it. It was such a filler chapter. So I scrapped the whole thing and started over, so PLEASE excuse all the mistakes I know are littered throughout.
> 
> Anyway. That's the end of Part I. YAY! There are a lot of things I wish I'd cut, but... this is basically a first draft. So seriously - thank you to all the people who have kept reading this long, rambling story. I hope things aren't quite so slow from here on out. I need to work on my pacing. It's my greatest struggle and always has been. Any tips on pacing would be appreciated :)
> 
> The good news is now I have a clearer plot and idea of where I want to go from here!
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who's read this far! :P


	22. Distance Between Two Points

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a huge thanks to followthefreedomtrail for beta reading this chapter like 100 times, catching all my weird mistakes, and just being super helpful and kind <3 Thank you so much!

**PART II**

* * *

 

They traveled until a little green came back into the land. Constance was excited to see the first patches of dry grass. More exciting still was the sight of trees. They appeared like one of those wavering desert dreams - a mirage - but quickly turned solid and real.

Arthur slowed the horses near a cluster of oaks to set up camp for the evening, and as soon as he’d stopped the wagon completely, Constance climbed down and put her hands to one of the tree trunks. She shut her eyes and listened to the rustle of leaves above her, until she was reminded too much of home and her family. It was like picking at a wound that had only just clotted, and she knew better.

She dropped her hands and turned back to Arthur. She caught his eyes before he could turn them away from her, and she wondered what he was thinking. But that was too silly of a question to ask aloud. So they made camp together, in silence, just as they had traveled the miles together.

Their camp was very near a cliff edge. Below, the San Luis had curled its way closer. And on the other side of the river, in the dusky light, Constance could make out the shape of something grand.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing.

Arthur was crouched on the ground, starting a fire. He followed the line of her finger and said, “El Presidio. It’s a military fort.”

They had only put in a day’s worth of travel, and here they were - shaded by oaks and a stone’s throw from Mexico, closer than she’d ever been before. If she hadn’t seen the stretch of the land earlier that morning, the vastness of it, she would have believed the world to be very small.

 

* * *

 

While Arthur tended to the horses, Constance searched through their provisions. She found some beans and salted meat, so she prepared dinner as best she could without the use of a stove and oven. In a way, she’d grown spoiled by Mrs. Byrd’s kitchen.

When Arthur returned to the circle of firelight, she handed him a tin plate filled with food, and he muttered thanks beneath his breath. She thought he might sit next to her, but he put quite some distance between them. He ate too fast to speak, and so they sat in silence once more.

In all this quiet, her mind wandered to her family again. Who would cook for them now? Perhaps Mother, but she came home so late in the evening. Constance should have taught the girls more when it came to cooking and tending a house. She should have taught Gideon, too.

The night around them was getting thick and cold, and she wanted desperately to think of other things. Constance glanced over her shoulder, towards El Presidio again. She could see its towers in the moonlight.

“Have you ever been there?” she asked Arthur, to fill the air between them.

“Where?” He’d finished up his food, was staring into the flames and warming his hands.

“El Presidio.”

“Nah, you don’t get in there unless you’re army or the army’s prisoner.”

“But you have been to Mexico?”

He’d taken his hat off earlier, but the firelight was casting his face in rippling shadows. It made him look guarded, half-hidden. “I been a few times, sure.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s just like here, I guess,” he said, and she thought this would likely be the end of the conversation. But he went on. “Ain’t so different. People just speak Spanish is all.”

“Do you speak it?”

He laughed once, dipped his head. “I can barely speak English, let alone Spanish. Knew a feller who tried to teach me some words once, but it didn’t take.”

“I’d like to learn,” she said, pulling her knees close to her chest, to fight off the chill. “There’s so little I know.”

Arthur flexed his fingers near the fire, like maybe his joints were hurting. He still wasn’t looking at her. “Oh, you know more than you let on, I reckon.”

“That’s hardly true. I hadn’t realized how ignorant I was of the world until we came out here. I know about the bible and sewing and cooking but I know hardly anything worth knowing.”

He was quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he agreed with her but was just too polite to say so. But then he nodded upwards to the sky. “Tell me which star is the North Star.”

She glanced up, a little wary. It had been some time since he’d told her about navigating at night. A lifetime ago, surely. A night very different than this one - when her family was huddled near and sleeping and there was no green around them at all, no trees.

But the North Star wasn’t so hard to spot. It wasn’t the brightest star in the sky - but it seemed to be dead center, right above her. Unmoving. She remembered it - or perhaps knew it by instinct alone. Hesitantly, she pointed, and Arthur gave a nod.

“Which way is east?” he asked.

“To my right?”

“And west?”

“To my left.”

He was looking at her now, not at the fire or the sky. “You know things worth knowin’,” he said.

She felt pleased and a little pink-cheeked. His silence had worried her. Would it always be like this between them - still and painfully quiet? Should she have fumbled harder for conversation? The only person who might know was Mother - and she was a day’s worth of travel away. And tomorrow at this time, there would be even more distance between them.

This unnerved Constance terribly. The only relief was to lay down and try for sleep. But there was a very sharp breeze blowing off from the river. It rustled the tree leaves above and cut through Constance’s blankets, through her dress - straight to the bone. She couldn’t sleep for shivering.

Then something settled over her - a new blanket. Thick and woolen.

Her eyes opened, and she caught Arthur easing back down near the fire. He took out his journal and started writing or maybe drawing, and she watched him, until the blanket finally warmed her and she fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

She woke before him, when the light was weak and so was their campfire. She made coffee, and the smell roused him. He sat up with a groan, some of his bones popping. His hair was completely tangled on one side and he looked miserable.

“Gettin’ too old to sleep on the ground,” he told her when he caught her staring.

There were lines on his face and maybe just a little gray starting in at his temples - but it was hard to tell, as light as his hair was. Even still, he did not look so old to her. He only looked a bit weathered - a man who’d spent most of his years outdoors, living rough and enduring the sun.

She did not know how to say these things aloud, though, or even if she should - so she just smiled and handed him a cup of coffee.

He drank it down fast and got moving. She rolled up their bedrolls, doused the fire, and he tended to the horses, harnessing them to the wagon again.

“Where’s Hippolyta?” Constance asked.

“Oh, I left her in Armadillo,” he said, brushing a hand along one of the new horses. “Left her to your folks. Figured they could sell her, if need be.”

These new creatures were massive, thick-legged and wild-maned. Constance approached the white one cautiously, gently touched at its neck. It didn’t huff or jolt or move at all, so she felt confident and kept patting it.

“That’s kind of you,” she told Arthur.

“Well, those kids liked her. And she’s gettin’ too old for a trip like this. She’s earned her rest.” Arthur pulled at the horses’ harnesses, checking to see if they were on properly.

“Do these horses have names?”

“Not yet. You can name ‘em, if you want.”

“Are they boys?”

He laughed, though she wasn’t sure what she’d said that was funny. “Yes.”

She looked at the pair - one white and one nearly black. They were both frighteningly big. “I’m not as creative with names as you are. Perhaps you should be in charge of naming them.”

He eyed them for a moment, then shrugged. “I gotta get to know ‘em better first,” he said, which she thought was rather endearing.

They moved on after that and started their travels as the sun was rising fast. Soon, there was more greenery around them - tall prairie grass and bigger clusters of trees. In the distance, Constance could see the rise of mountains.

“Is that where we’re headed?” she asked him as they bumped along in the wagon.

He nodded and pointed with two fingers. “Headed northeast. We’ll cross over the stateline in a few days, be in West Elizabeth. Then we’ll go over the Lower Montana and be near Tall Trees.”

She had no clue what these places were, but she liked the sound of Tall Trees, the image it conjured. Forests and damp air. Wildlife she understood and knew well. She tried to think of what a relief it would be get there, to stand in that familiarity. She did not want to think about how far the distance between her and her family would stretch by then.

“We might get delayed, though,” said Arthur. He nodded towards the sky.

Constance glanced at the clouds. They looked gentle to her, but she didn’t have an eye for such things. Not yet. “How do you know?” she asked him.

“Know what?”

“That it’ll storm.”

“I don’t know for sure,” he said.

But a few hours later, the clouds turned dark, like firesmoke, and thunder started rumbling in the distance. A breeze kicked up hard, and tore leaves loose from branches, ripped at Constance’s hair until she was shivering. There was electricity in that wind.

Arthur pulled the horses to a stop and took out his map - it was a massive thing so it stretched over his lap and into Constance’s. They both tried to hold it down.

“There’s a ranch somewhere ‘round here,” he said, his voice rising to be heard over the crack of thunder. “I just can’t remember where exactly.”

Constance looked over the land with him, but she wasn’t sure what she was looking for, exactly. The map was filled with his handwriting - notes of interest, fishing spots. There were even animals sketched near certain points - pronghorn, bison, rattlesnakes - and all of them were drawn with care and precision.

“Did you do these?” she asked, letting go of one corner of the map to point. The paper immediately whipped up, threatened to tear, but she caught it again, before any damage could be done.

“Yeah,” he said, completely offhand. He was studying hard at the map, looking for some kind of clue.

She was amazed, looking at his hands - which were big and which she knew to be quite rough - then looking at those near-delicate drawings. “They’re beautiful. How did you put such detail into them?”

“I got a decent memory, most of the time.” He peered harder at the map, then flicked a spot. There was nothing there but he nodded. “I think this is where the ranch is.”

He folded the map back up, put it in his satchel. Then he snapped the reins, got the horses moving again.

It didn’t take long for the winds to bring some rain - only a few drops at first. Then, a torrent. The land went gray and blurry and cold. They were soaked through almost instantly, and Constance hoped there were no rips in the wagon’s canvas.

“I didn’t think it was supposed to rain this much in these parts,” she said, yelling to be heard.

“It’s monsoon season - just that time of year. This is when the desert gets most of its rain - all at once,” he yelled back.

They kept pushing, but progress was slow. The horses were marching through pure muck, dirt and grass churned to thick mud, and Constance could only see a few feet in front of them. She certainly couldn't see the sun anymore, and she wondered how it was Arthur was navigating.

But he got them where they needed to go. They passed over a wooden bridge, some railroad tracks, and then, through the sheets of rain, Constance saw a few buildings, a strip of fence.

“Hey - hey! Who the hell goes there?” A man appeared out of the gray, a shotgun ready.

Arthur held up his hands, and Constance took the hint and followed suit.

“We don’t mean no harm,” said Arthur. “Just got caught out in this mess. Was wonderin’ if we could stay here a while, just ‘til the storm passes. We could hole up in your barn, if it ain’t no trouble.”

Rain was running off the brim of the man’s hat, blurring his features. His head tilted back and forth, as if he was looking at Arthur, then Constance. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“I’m Arthur Callahan. This is... ah, Miss Constance Fay - Callahan.”

“Fay-Callahan?”

“No, just Callahan.”

“Well, ain’t that just suspicious as hell.” The man was not letting that shotgun drop.

“We were just married,” Constance said, quickly. “Only two days ago.”

“You two is married?” Constance did not have to see the man’s face to know he was dumbfounded. “Hell, how’d you manage that, mister?”

Arthur was getting tense. Constance saw his hand flex, once, like maybe he was thinking about drawing - but he kept steady. “I still ain’t quite sure.”

“Well.” The man looked at them a moment longer. Then, finally, he let the gun droop a little. He used it to point. “The barn’s over there. You can take the wagon inside and wait. I gotta talk to the lady of the house.”

“Much obliged,” said Arthur. He snapped the reins again, maneuvered the horses in the direction the man had pointed. A barn appeared out of the gloom, and Arthur handed the reins over to Constance. “I gotta open the doors. Think you can guide ‘em in?”

“Okay,” she said.

He pushed up his hat a little, to give her a look through all the water falling between them. “You ever steered a wagon before?”

“My father let me drive our wagon on the trip here,” she said. “Only once or twice. But I got the hang of it.”

“Told you you knew more than you let on,” he said and then he jumped down from the wagon and pulled open the barn doors, waved her in.

Once the wagon was parked, Arthur walked over and lifted her down - so she wouldn’t get tangled in her wet skirts. He removed his hands as soon as she was on steady ground.

“Do you know if these people are good people?” asked Constance, glancing around the barn. It smelled like wet hay and manure and nothing of surprise. Only a bit of weak light filtered in from the loft windows, gray and hazy.

“Don’t know anythin’ about this place, if I’m bein’ honest.” Arthur took his hat off, shook it dry. “Last time I was through this part of Hennigan’s Stead, this place weren’t nothing noteworthy.”

Outside, the storm was worsening. Rain pelted the barn, and the thunder was so loud that it vibrated in Constance’s chest, rattled her teeth.

They waited only a few minutes before the barn doors opened. The lady of the house was little more than a girl - slim and blonde, with freckles and sharp eyes. She wore pants and had a rifle cradled loose in her hands.

“Heard we had some honeymooners,” she said.

Arthur looked wary. “You’re the lady of the house?”

“I am right now. My daddy’s in Blackwater at the moment. But don’t get no ideas. I can shoot straight when I have to, and I ain’t afraid of gunplay, either.”

Arthur held up his hands. “Oh no - course not, ma’am.”

“Miss,” she said. “Miss Bonnie MacFarlane. Amos told me you two was just married and seeking shelter from the storm - that right or did he manage to get it wrong between here and there? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“No, that’s right,” said Arthur.

“Well, we normally don’t let in drifters, but we just had a man quit so we’re awful short-handed. Amos needs help in forge. And I need help in the house. So God must be lookin’ out for you two.” Miss MacFarlane peered at them a moment, her brow wrinkling. “Y’all ain’t gonna try to rob me or nothin’ if I show y’all some kindness, are you?”

Constance stepped forward and answered this. “No, of course not.”

“Hm.” Miss MacFarlane glanced back at Arthur. “You look like an outlaw. Anyone ever told you that?”

“Once or twice.”

Miss MacFarlane sized him up a moment longer, shifting back and forth on her feet. Then she looked at Constance again and shrugged. “Well, I won’t hold it against you,” she said. “Guess a man can’t help how he looks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter of the second part woo! Also who is excited that RDR2 is coming to PC? This means there will be mods <3 AHH! I'm just waiting for the first RDR to come out on PC :( Did anyone reading play the first one, btw? 
> 
> Oh also I have a Tumblr I'm gonna *TRY* to be active on if anyone wants to pop in and say hello! You can find me over there with the same username/blog name (?): tiesthatbind1899. I really have no clue what I'm doing, though, so keep that in mind. Tumblr's setup is so confusing to me. I do love seeing all the RDR content though <3 
> 
> Also I have a weheartit board for this story but there could be some spoiler-y type pictures in there so beware: https://weheartit.com/dreamsthatbind/collections/158070600-memories-west
> 
> And that's enough social media self-promotion! I hope everyone had a good week. Thank you so much for reading. Again, a heartfelt thanks to all commenters, too. I've never had such in-depth, kind and lovely reviews before. Thank you truly <3


	23. The Great Flood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000000 thank you's to followthefreedomtrail for once again beta reading <3

She’d been raised by the bible and the belief in a vengeful God. Standing in Miss MacFarlane’s kitchen, staring out the windows, Constance wondered just what sin the people of Hennigan’s Stead had committed to warrant such a flood.

For the first time that she could remember, the storms outside made her just a little uneasy.

She’d been separated off from Arthur. Miss MacFarlane had ordered him to go find Amos in the forge, and then she’d swept Constance away, to this house - which was elegant inside, but dark and unfamiliar.

Miss MacFarlane had led her straight to the kitchen, pointed out the pantry and the cookware, and said, “Cook whatever you’d like. Then take some for yourself and your husband. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Where are you going?” Constance had asked, startled.

“I gotta help the men. If you leave Amos in charge, he’s likely to burn down the whole damn place. Even in a rainstorm.”

She’d left after that, and Constance was alone.

The kitchen was quite something. If Mrs. Byrd’s kitchen had threatened to spoil her, this one surely would. But despite how big and well-stocked it was, it was also gray and very quiet. Constance turned up all the oil lamps, lit candles, and still, shadows lingered at the edges of the room.

She stared out the windows for a long time. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for - all she could see was rain - and she wondered if it was storming in Armadillo, too. She wondered if the children were frightened.

Constance started cooking soon after, to keep her mind occupied. Beef stew and cornbread. She decided to make a cider cake, too, because there was nothing else for her to do. Cooking and housework. It had never bothered her before - but neither had storms. And now both rubbed her nerves raw.

 

* * *

 

When everything was done, Constance had the kitchen steaming hot and smelling fine. But outside, it had gone completely to darkness. The storm did not appear to be letting up, either - and Constance hadn’t caught sight of another soul in hours.

She waited, as long as she could. Until she grew restless with thought. She’d started remembering her family again - worrying - and she couldn’t take it any longer.

Earlier, on the way to the house, Miss MacFarlane had pointed out the empty cabin Constance and Arthur would be staying in. Constance thought she remembered which one it was and how to find her way back to it.

So she ladled out a little bowl of stew. She wrapped a piece of cornbread and a piece of cider cake in cloths, and then she decided to make a run for it.

The rain was icy cold now and soaked her through once more. It was hard, navigating in the dark and bad weather. With her hands full, she couldn’t lift up the hem of her skirt, so it got caked with mud, weighted down and difficult to manage.

But she did find the cabin - a small, two-roomed affair. It was filled with rickety, mismatched furniture and holey rugs and cobwebbed curtains - but it had a stove which Constance put a match to right away. She sat the food on the table and lit all the candles, the oil lamps. By the end of it, the place was warmer, brighter and filled with the smell of a home-cooked meal.

She tried waiting again. She swept the floors. She found two bowls and some silverware and set the table. And still, Arthur had not reappeared.

It was dark outside and stormy, and it had been so long since she’d seen anyone. She peered through the windows and wondered if Arthur would come back at all. He’d been a reluctant partner in this journey from the start. He’d been silent and strange and distant since the wedding. Maybe now the panic had finally set in. Maybe now he was realizing what a burden he’d picked up, and maybe he would just disappear into the night. This wasn’t hard to imagine.

She went back out into the storm - headed for the barn. The wagon was still there but the horses had been untethered and placed in stalls. They regarded her impassively as she clambered up into the back of the wagon.

Arthur’s trunk was still there. She didn’t think he’d leave that behind. So she grabbed it and wrestled it outside, towards the cabin. It was heavy, and she fought with it, slipping in all the mud. She wondered what on earth he had inside - he certainly did not seem to be a material man. This was just another mystery, though, one she doubted she would find an answer to anytime soon.

Once she had his trunk back in the cabin, she went back to the barn for her own trunk, which was much lighter. She’d never had much, and she had even less now - a nightgown, her father’s watch, a bible, and one extra dress. Arthur had offered to take her to the general store in Armadillo, but she’d refused. She already owed him a great deal. Too much.

When she got back to the cabin, Arthur was there - dripping water onto her fresh-swept floors. There was relief, at first, in seeing him.

“What the hell you doin’?” he asked, rushing over to take the trunk from her.

“I thought we’d want dry clothes,” she replied, fighting to get the cabin door to shut against the wind.

“You should’ve let me do this,” he said, maneuvering the trunk into the tiny bedroom.

“I’m not an invalid.”

Once he’d put down the trunk, Arthur came back and toed the edge between the rooms. He looked at her carefully and filled up the whole doorframe with his shoulders. “I didn’t say you was.”

She paused, felt a little of her irritation draining away. “I made dinner,” she told him. “It might be cold now.”

“That’s all right.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

She nodded and went to the table, ladled out the soup into their bowls. When she sat down, he came over, shrugging out of his wet jacket. He hung it on the back of a chair. The shirt he had on beneath was stuck to him like a second skin, and it wasn’t until he looked at her, kind of strangely, that she realized she’d been staring.

She quickly averted her eyes.

“Somethin’ the matter?” he asked, sitting down across from her.

“No.”

They ate dinner in relative silence, of course. Arthur told her the food was very good, and she said thank you, and that was that. He was eating too fast for any more conversation, and she wondered if he had siblings. Someone he’d had to fight with over food. She felt too shy to ask him, at that particular moment, so it was just another way in which he was a stranger to her.

“I made cider cake, too.” She unfolded it from the wet cloth it had been wrapped in and pushed it towards him.

“Jesus,” he said but he seemed pleased. He quickly finished off his stew and cornbread, dug into the cake without any preamble. “Been a long time since I had this.”

“Cider cake?”

“No. Well, yes - but I meant it’s been a long time since I had someone else’s cookin’ ‘sides my own - which is poor. I have an awful tendency to burn things.”

Constance smiled, just a little, but she also wondered who had cooked for him before. A mother? Someone in his old gang? A lover?

She felt her cheeks heat up and hoped he didn’t notice. “Do you like the cake?”

“Yeah, it’s good. You’re a real fine cook.”

He sounded sincere enough to make her flush darker but he didn’t see it. He had his eyes on that cake and was choking it down at an alarming speed.

She watched him for a moment, torn between feelings. He seemed younger tonight, eating so quickly and with his wet hair falling in his face. He seemed just a little softer, too, a little closer. She thought if she reached out and pushed some of his hair behind his ear, he might let her tuck back the other side, too.

It gave her the courage to speak plainly. She said, “I want to learn how to do... ranch things.”

He finally looked up from his cake. His mouth was full. “Ranch things?”

She nodded, trying not to get overwhelmed by all the things she did not know. “Yes. You know - horse... stuff. And... lassoing.”

“Lassoing?” He sat back in his chair, wiped the back of his mouth. She could tell he was trying not to smile.

“Well, isn’t that something worth knowing?”

“If you’re a cowboy or a bounty hunter, sure.” He jerked his chin at her. “You plannin’ on a new career? I reckon you heard how high my bounty was and wanna collect. There’s easier ways of goin’ about it than tryin’ to lasso me, you know.”

She frowned, feeling less and less affection for him. “I don’t appreciate you laughing at me.”

“Oh, no. I’m not laughin’.” But he was smiling - very obviously now. “I just... well, you took me off guard, is all.”

“I can do more than just cook, Arthur.”

This sobered him rather quickly. He met her eyes with his, which were very blue in the candlelight. “I know that,” he said. Then he smiled again, but it was different than before. “I seen you shoot, remember?”

At that, she settled slightly. Then smiled back, just a little.

“I’ll teach you how to lasso, if that’s what you want,” he said and went back to eating his cake, like it was decided.

“Gideon will be so jealous,” Constance said, without really thinking it through. Her smile faltered, and Arthur looked up in time to see it fade away completely.

“You miss them?” he asked. “Your family?”

There seemed no point in lying. She was too tired and he wouldn’t believe her, anyway. “Yes.”

“I can take you back,” he said, right away - like he’d already been thinking it and was just waiting for the chance to say it aloud.

“What?”

“I can take you back to ‘em. You just say the word.” He looked right at her, his eyes steady.

“Is that what you want? To...” _get rid of me?_ This is what she wanted to ask but lacked the courage. “You want to take me back?”

He looked down. The candlelight cast soft shadows on his face, made him look shy and repentant. He did not answer her, and rather than pushing her to anger, it only made her very tired.

“What do you want, Arthur?” she asked.

He exhaled a laugh and there was some tiredness in that sound too. “I ain’t never been too sure on that.”

Another silence settled over them. A gentler one than before. They listened to the rain, the crack of fire in the stove.

Then Constance looked at him and asked, “Do you have siblings?”

“Not of any blood relation,” he said. “Why?”

“I just wanted to know.”

 

* * *

 

He changed into a dry union suit, and in the other room, Constance dressed in her nightclothes. It was not at all what he thought married life would be. But then again, it had been some time since he considered such things. He’d put those dreams aside many years ago.

After he made sure Constance was decent, he came into the bedroom. She had her hair down - no braids, no updo. It was wavy and brown, all the way down to her hips. Impossibly, like this, she looked even younger. He had the strongest impulse to reach out and touch all that hair, but of course he didn’t, lest he scare her to death.

She didn’t look timid, though. She stared up at him for a moment, with those deep eyes and that little scowl between her brows. Then she said, very strong and sudden, “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

He was tired, so it took his brain a moment to catch up. “I... well, I ain’t lettin’ you sleep on the floor, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

Her scowl deepened and with it came the barest hint of a blush. She averted her eyes. “We can share the bed. There’s enough room for the both of us.”

“We must be talkin’ about a different bed.”

They both looked at it together. It was shoved against the wall, the mattress thin and lumpy. Arthur thought only a child could sleep comfortably in it.

“We can both fit,” she said with an edge of stubbornness creeping into her voice.

Arthur looked at the bed again. He thought of all the ways they’d tangle and touch in the night. It kicked his anxieties up something awful. “I don’t think -”

Constance blew out a sigh, her patience waning. She finally looked at him, pinned him and struck him silent with that gaze. “Please, Arthur. I just... I’ve never... I haven’t slept alone much before and I can’t - I don’t -”

Finally, the pieces clicked together. He’d forgotten what it was to live with others. To grow accustomed to another body sleeping next to yours. It did bring a strange kind of comfort, now that he thought back on it.

“All right,” he said, nodding and sighing. “I understand.”

She looked away again, her cheeks pink, and she grabbed the bed covers, pulled them down. She climbed in first and settled, facing the wall with her back to him.

He hesitated, feeling very awkward. But then Constance peeped over her shoulder at him, scowled again like he was being stupid.

“Turn the lamps down,” she said. “And get into bed.”

So that’s what he did. But not before he muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” which she ignored.

He laid down and tried very hard not to touch her. His efforts put half his body hanging off the side of the bed, but he thought it was a small price to pay.

Next to him, after only a few minutes, she stilled into sleep, and he was halfway amazed at this. Rest never came easy for him. His body always ached too fiercely, and before he’d been old and worn in the joints, his mind had been the problem. In the nighttime hours, he thought too much. He wandered into memory.

Constance was too young to have aching bones. Too pure to have many ugly regrets. So she was sleeping soundly, lax and unmoving, while he was tense, poised on the edge of the bed and staring hard up at the ceiling. He watched the rainy shadows for a long time, listening to the distant thunder and the close sound of Constance’s breathing. Then he glanced at her, found her face turned towards him. She looked even younger while she slept. That ever-present threat of a frown, which always seemed to rest and hover between her brows, was smoothed away.

A few strands of hair had fallen over her cheek. He brushed them aside, very carefully. Her skin was so soft and smooth that he felt guilty touching her, and he quickly pulled back, watching to see if she’d wake, but she was a sound sleeper and didn’t stir.

Arthur finally gave up the fight for sleep and climbed out of bed. He sat at the table in the tiny kitchen and by the dim light of the oil lamp, he took out all his letters and stared at them for a long time, at the familiar handwritings.

He read Charles’s first, which was the briefest. Sadie had been right - Charles was in Colorado with the Wapiti tribe. They were still having troubles with the government. Still barely scraping by.

He read John’s letters next, which were not nearly as brief as Charles’s. The tone of the writing wavered back and forth - angry then regretful then angry again. He sometimes veered dangerously close to introspection but would quickly correct himself by writing some kind of nonsense.

Arthur knew he should write them back. He should write Sadie, too. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. What would he say? _Since the last time we spoke, I’ve married a girl I barely know, who is half my age and much too good for the likes of me. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you to the wedding._

He really was a fool.

Sighing, he put the letters away. He pulled out his journal instead and tried to write but couldn’t manage it. So he drew instead. He’d been drawing a lot lately. Sometimes, it was easier for him to put down images rather than his thoughts. The images were clearer in his mind. The thoughts were all tangled.

He sketched the new horses, at first - the ones that were pulling the wagon. He still hadn’t named them.

Then he started drawing Constance again, out of habit mostly. He couldn’t quite get her face right. There was such softness to it but something steely beneath. The eyes - that’s what he always got wrong. He couldn’t get the depth of them down on paper. And without the right eyes, what good was any other detail?

She’d told him earlier, before the storm, that his drawings were nice.

“They’re beautiful.” That’s what she’d said, and it had embarrassed him.

He wondered what she’d think if she knew he was trying to sketch her now. If she knew how many times he’d tried to capture her likeness before.

Best she never know, he decided, and snapped his journal shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress coming slowly but surely!
> 
> So I don't think I'm going to do Saturday updates anymore but just go back to updating when I can, which will still most likely be once a week. The Saturday updates have made me super nervous, though, for some reason. And it's like this deadline looming over me. It's all in my head, of course, but I don't want the chapter content to suffer for it and then give y'all half-hearted work. So, updates every week but it will just depend on the day! I hope everyone is okay with this :/ I'm sorry!
> 
> We'll actually get some more Bonnie interaction next chapter. AND Constance will get to do something she's wanted to for a while :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone, again, for hanging in! I've really never received such thoughtful comments before. I'm always floored. And also really enjoy discussing RDR with y'all <3


	24. Who Hath Wounds Without Cause

Arthur woke to gray skies and an empty bed. He laid there for a minute, shaking out all the sleep in his brain, stretching and popping his joints, and then remembered there should be someone lying next to him.

He sat up sharply, glancing around the little room. “Constance?”

There was no answer.

Arthur got to his feet and peered through the window. The rain had finally stopped, but the clouds didn’t look very promising. They’d blotted out the sun completely, and he’d slept straight through the dawn, on into late morning because of it.

He pulled his pants on over his union suit and shoved his feet into his boots as quick as he could. Then he headed outside, sloshing through mud, in search of the girl.

It didn’t take him very long to find her.

He’d heard voices, a few laughs, and so he followed the sounds around the barn, towards the corrals, and there they were - Miss MacFarlane and Constance, wearing matching pants.

He was more than a little shocked.

Miss MacFarlane was bent over laughing, and Constance - she was laughing, too, harder than Arthur had ever seen before. In her hands, she held a rope. It was looped into a lasso, and she’d obviously been trying to toss it. Trying and failing.

“Why, Mr. Callahan!” Miss MacFarlane had straightened up and noticed him. She gave him a hearty wave. “Good mornin’!” 

“Mornin’.” It was about all he could manage.

Constance had noticed him by now, too. She handed the rope off to Miss MacFarlane and walked right over to him. Graced him with a smile. “Miss MacFarlane is teaching me how to lasso.”

“And how’s that goin’?” he asked, leaning against the corral fence that separated them.

“Poorly.”

He shook his head, laughed. “I thought I was supposed to teach you, anyway.”

“You slept too long.”

“Oh, well, excuse me.”

She laughed - a giggle, actually, a sound he hadn’t really heard from her before. She hid her mouth with her hand, very dainty, and he felt some stirrings he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“Stop distractin’ her, Mr. Callahan!” said Miss MacFarlane. “She’s almost got it.”

“I most certainly do not,” Constance told him.

“Ah, give it time. You’ll get there,” he replied.

This made her smile again, a little more sly. Then she seemed to realize how free she was being with those smiles and laughs and she quickly scowled, shooed at him. “Go away. I don’t want you watching this.”

Arthur was on the edge of protesting when a train whistle cut through the air, shrill and very familiar.

The sound perked Miss MacFarlane up immediately. She tore off running towards the tracks, hollering something about how it was her daddy coming back from Blackwater.

This made Arthur uneasy, for many reasons. Miss MacFarlane had been very welcoming, but she was young - naive. Still a little blind to the world and the ugliness in it. Arthur didn’t have any hope her father would be so trusting. A man who’d built so much out in this land and kept it against sickness and bandits and famine - he was sure to be shrewd.

And he’d come from Blackwater. That name alone still sent Arthur’s stomach sour.

Constance drifted closer to him, on the other side of the fence. She was watching him very carefully.

He looked back at her, motioned at her pants. Tried to smile. “I see you got you some pants, Black Belle. We’ll make a gunfighter of you yet.”

She turned shy again, but he could tell she was kind of pleased, too. “Miss MacFarlane said I could borrow a pair, just for the day.”

Arthur glanced over Constance’s shoulder. The train had appeared and pulled to a stop, streaming black smoke. “How you like ‘em?” he asked, only a little distracted.

“They aren’t quite as comfortable as I’d hoped,” said Constance. She sounded just a bit disappointed.

This made him laugh, drew his attention back to her. “Well,” he said. “You’ll get used to ‘em.”

She smiled for some reason, very big - big enough for that dimple to appear in her left cheek. It was rare he saw that.

Miss MacFarlane was walking back to the corrals, now, a big man in tow. Behind them, the train let loose with another whistle and lurched forward, sluggishly pulling away from the station.

Arthur resituated his hat, pulled it a little lower over his eyes.

“Mr. and Mrs. Callahan,” said Miss MacFarlane as she came up. “I’d like you two to meet my father - Drew MacFarlane. Daddy, this is Mr. Arthur Callahan and his wife, Constance.”

Arthur felt a little off-kilter from that introduction alone, but he extended his hand, tried not to look as shifty as he felt. “Sir.”

Drew MacFarlane took his hand and shook hard, giving a firm nod. He looked just about how Arthur had expected - tough and weathered, with a mustache big enough to hide his mouth. He was quiet, Arthur could tell, but it was often the quiet ones who had the most grit. He stared Arthur down hard, not bothering to hide his mistrust.

Arthur wondered if he was ever gonna shake the look he carried with him. Even with a haircut and a shave, he doubted it’d make much difference. Maybe his sins were etched into him too deep. Maybe they’d never be polished clean, and he’d have to carry them forever. He supposed this was only fair.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Constance inched forward gently, offered her hand in greeting.

Mr. MacFarlane took it with a lot more care than he had Arthur’s. “Mrs. Callahan. My Bonnie tells me you can cook a great stew.”

Constance blushed. “Oh, I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, I believe my girl if she says it’s good. I’m hopin’ you’ll be persuaded to cook for us this evenin’.” Mr. MacFarlane glanced at his daughter, then back to Constance. “My Bonnie is a lot of things, but a good cook, she is not.”

Miss MacFarlane rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Daddy.”

“I’d be more than happy to cook something,” said Constance.

“Great.” Mr. MacFarlane’s eyes slipped back to Arthur. “I trust you two will join us for dinner, then. So we can get to know each other a bit better.”

That sounded about as appealing as standing in a lightning storm with a metal rod, but Arthur didn’t see much way around it without making Mr. MacFarlane even more suspicious. So he nodded. “Sure.”

“Well, c’mon, then, Constance - we can go ahead and get started with dinner,” said Miss MacFarlane. “But don’t worry, Daddy - I’ll let Constance do the heavy lifting.”

Arthur watched as Miss MacFarlane grabbed Constance’s hand and pulled her away. She seemed hesitant to go, but she didn’t put up a fight.

Arthur glanced back at Mr. MacFarlane, who was studying him with even more hostility now. Arthur dipped his head, cleared his throat. “Guess I better go find Amos. I was supposed to help him mend one of these fences today.”

Mr. MacFarlane did not acknowledge this in any way. Instead, he said, “My Bonnie is too free with her trust.”

Arthur kind of sighed, hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Is that so?”

Mr. MacFarlane gave a curt nod. “You cause any trouble, and I’ll put you down.”

“I ain’t caused any trouble yet, have I?”

“I just thought I’d give you a fair warnin’.”

“Well, consider me warned,” said Arthur.

Mr. MacFarlane didn’t like that at all, but he didn’t say anything else. He just marched off, after the women, and left Arthur feeling hunted once more.

 

* * *

 

 

“Your husband sure is a cowboy, ain’t he?” asked Bonnie. She was staring out the kitchen window - at Arthur. He was helping Amos mend a weak spot in one of the fences, and they were just visible in the distance.

Constance had been watching him, too, instead of chopping the potatoes for their stew. “I thought you said he had the look of an outlaw.”

“Well, that, too.” Bonnie glanced over and grinned. “There are worse things to look like, though. I guess you’d agree, seein’ as how you married him and all.”

Constance flushed a little. She looked back at Arthur. He was driving a post into the ground, making short work of it. Making it look easy enough - but she knew it wasn’t.

“What’s it like, anyway - bein’ married?’ asked Bonnie, hopping up onto the table, kicking her legs. She’d been helping cut up vegetables, at first - but her heart wasn’t in it. She’d managed to mangle just about everything, so she’d given it up and watched Constance instead, fetching ingredients when needed.

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask.” Constance went back to chopping potatoes. “It’s all very new to me still.” 

Bonnie grabbed a piece of the diced potato, ate it raw. “How’d you two meet?”

“On the road. My family and I were lost, and he... well, he saved us from dying out there.” It felt like many lifetimes ago - that first sight of him. She’d been wary of him then - with his hat and his guns, his strange kindness. She was still wary now - just over different things.

“Why were you out in the desert?” asked Bonnie.

“We were traveling to Arizona, to a settlement that my father was called to preach in. But... he fell ill on the trip. And my brother. We lost both of them.”

Bonnie sighed, a real heavy and tired kind of sigh. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Callahan. I sure am. I lost quite a few brothers myself.”

Constance looked out the window again, past Arthur this time. She looked at the horizon and the sky, where the sun had finally broken through the clouds. She stared until the light burned away some of the tears trying to form in her eyes. “This land seems to be hungry for the lives of those we love.”

“Oh, this land ain’t particular - make no mistake about that. It can take just about anyone - people we love or hate. Anyone.”

 

* * *

 

 

Once dinner was cooking, Constance went to change out of her new pants. Bonnie had told her to keep them and having another thing to add to her trunk made her happy, until she got back to the cabin and found Arthur looking so troubled.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He was sitting at the table, sweaty and dirty from hard work. He’d halfway unbuttoned the top of his union suit and rolled up the sleeves in an effort to cool himself off. She knew he was preoccupied because he did not offer to button himself back up, even when her cheeks darkened at the sight of him.

“We’re leavin’ tomorrow,” he said. “If the weather permits.”

She nodded, trying to cover up her disappointment. “Okay. Is something wrong?”

Arthur sat back in his chair, wiped a hand over his mouth and chin. He wouldn’t look at her, and she didn’t much expect him to give her an answer - but then he did. “I think Mr. MacFarlane might know who I am.”

Constance paused, thinking it over. “Are you sure? Or are you just being... paranoid?”

He laughed once, humorlessly. “Maybe. But I can’t afford not to be.”

She went to him, pulled a chair close and sat down. Their knees nearly touched. “Did he say something to you?”

Arthur sighed, then met her eyes. He looked very tired, but she didn’t think it was from the work he’d done today. “Oh, he made the usual threats.”

Constance didn’t come from a world where threats were usual, but she didn’t think it wise to say so. She just frowned. “Did he say anything about Blackwater?”

“No, not in particular.” Arthur looked away again, ran his hands over his face. Pressed at his eyes. Then he sighed. “I really ought to bring you back to your family, Constance.”

She sat back immediately. “This again.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “It weren’t settled the first time we talked it over.”

“I thought it was settled when we were married.”

He leaned back, gave her a look. Some hair was hanging in his eyes, catching in his lashes when he blinked, but he didn’t bother pushing it away and she didn’t think now was the time to do it for him. “This is how it’s gonna be - wherever I go. Always lookin’ over my goddamn shoulder. Why should you have to do the same for sins that ain’t even yours?”

“We’re very close to Blackwater - that’s all. We’ll put some distance -”

“Distance don’t solve things, not anymore - not with trains and telegraphs and the like.” He shook his head and hunched forward, rested his elbows on his knees. It looked, if only for a moment, like he was praying. “I’ve always been a selfish man. You have to be - to rob and kill folks. You gotta think you need somethin’ more than they do. That you need to live more than they do. But I try not to be that man anymore. And takin’ you with me is about as selfish as I can get.”

He sounded much too resigned, and a thread of panic threatened to worm its way back into Constance’s mind. She saw him taking her back to Armadillo, with only a taste of freedom lingering in the back of her throat.

It made her a little crazy, so she leaned forward, caught his hands with hers. She squeezed his fingers until he looked at her. She felt him try to pull back, but she wouldn’t let go so easy. She said, “You can’t take me back, Arthur.”

“I damn well should.”

She shook her head, hard enough that some of her hair fell free. “No. I... you didn’t steal me away, Arthur. You didn’t trick me into anything. You were honest about the risks, and I was willing to take them.”

“Yes, but -”

“No, just -” She blew out a sharp breath, looked away from him long enough to gather her thoughts. “Just _hush_.”

His brows shot up, and had she not been so filled to the brim with desperation, she would have thought it funny.

“I’m _not_ going back,” she said, with more force than she thought she had. She looked at him square, so he would know how serious she was. “I’m not. You’re stuck with me now.”

He was quiet for a long time, a crease between his brows. He looked upset - but not conflicted, at least. Just tired and maybe sad. But then he nodded. “I think it’s the other way around, darlin’, but if... if you don’t wanna go back, I won’t make you.”

“You promise?” She still had hold of his hands, but he’d stopped trying to get them free.

“Sure.”

“Say it.”

He heaved out a sigh but relented. “I promise.”

She trusted in that, for some reason. He swore he was a lot of things, but he’d only been honest with her, since the very first time he saw her and he told her he had no favor with God.

“Okay,” she said and finally let go of his hands. “Let’s get ready for dinner, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was basically almost a Saturday update, anyway :P But oh well! I do have most of the next chapter done, but it's a short chapter - so I'm trying to stretch it out a little so it fits with the length of all the other chapters. But it just isn't cooperating. Is consistency with chapter lengths important to you, as a reader?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who takes the time to comment, btw. I really am grateful. I've written fanfic before for other fandoms and never had such kind and meaningful interactions with people. I'm honestly just stunned. It's so exciting to jump into my inbox and reply to everyone. <3 Thank you! And thanks for even reading this! I know it's slow going, so thanks for having patience!
> 
> Also, while I'm on thank you's, huge thank you to followthefreedomtrail for beta reading again and not letting me overuse commas and the phrases "a little" and "a bit." <3 And for being so encouraging and kind <3
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter will be out soon! Come talk to me on Tumblr (tiesthatbind1899) if you're wanting to just basically geek out about RDR because I'm always happy to do that :) I'm sorta getting the hang of Tumblr now.


	25. Never Leaving Love Aside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY RDR2 ANNIVERSARY EVERYONE! <3

In the privacy of the bedroom, Constance changed into her only dress. It was in a sorry state, but her blouse and skirt looked even worse so she had to make do.

When she came into the other room, Arthur had changed into the outfit he’d worn on their wedding day - black trousers and a crisp white shirt. He was putting on his gunbelt, fastening the buckle.

“Do you expect there to be a great deal of gunplay at dinner tonight?” she asked.

He gave a brief smile. “Oh, you never know. Stranger things have happened.”

She had no doubt he’d seen these stranger things firsthand, but tonight, his worries were unfounded. When they arrived at the MacFarlanes’, Bonnie had simply welcomed them into the house and led them to the dinning room, where Mr. MacFarlane was waiting.

There was only a little awkwardness at first. Arthur was on edge, quiet in his worries, and it was left to Constance to fill the void, to answer Mr. MacFarlane’s questions about their marriage and travels.

“I reckon you two are headed to Blackwater for the honeymoon,” he said, as Bonnie ladled out stew into everyone’s bowls.

Constance glanced to Arthur. He looked ready for some terrible fate to befall them - expectant and accepting. But Constance didn’t see any malice in Mr. MacFarlane’s eyes, no ploys or dishonesty. He seemed a very straight-forward man. Serious and stoic.

“No, sir,” she said. “We’re headed northwest, actually.”

Mr. MacFarlane gave no accusations to the contrary, no allegations regarding Arthur’s past. He only cut himself a big chunk of bread before passing the loaf along to Bonnie. “Northwest? Why?”

Constance nudged Arthur’s leg beneath the table, and he cleared his throat and spoke up gruffly. “The plan is to find some land up there. Make it our own.”

“You plannin’ on farmin’ this land? Or ranchin’ it?”

Arthur paused, still a little wary. “Well, truth be told, I ain’t too skilled in farmin’, sir. Was leanin’ towards ranchin’, but I gotta talk it over with the gir - my, uh, wife.”

Constance felt a blush creep up her face, and from across the table, Bonnie caught it and smiled.

“Well, you’re a smart man,” said Mr. MacFarlane, nodding. “It’s hard to go wrong when you have the counsel of a good woman. Bonnie’s mother - well, this place wouldn’t be half of what it is, had it not been for that woman.” He went quiet for a moment, lost in memory. Then he coughed and blinked back into the present. “But - now I have my Bonnie’s advice. She ain’t steered me too awful wrong yet.”

“Why thanks, Daddy,” Bonnie said, rolling her eyes. But she reached over, grabbed his hand, and gave it a squeeze.

Conversation flowed more easily after that. Bonnie brought out a bottle of wine and that flowed easily, too. Arthur’s worries seemed to settle more and more with each drink he took until finally, he was talking without that gruff and guarded edge to his voice. Constance felt him relaxing, so she relaxed with him, relieved.

Mr. MacFarlane grew looser, too. It seemed he couldn’t resist the chance to reminisce and discuss, especially after a few glasses of wine. He spoke of ranching and what it meant to live out west and how things had changed with railroads and telegraphy and other kinds of progress. How the world had seemed big for many, many years and then was made smaller, in what felt like a heartbeat. It made Constance a touch nostalgic for times she’d never lived through. Listening to him, she finally caught just a little of that westward fever.

Arthur was different here - relaxed by either the wine or the candlelight or the company. He asked a lot of questions - first about ranching. Then about the land and its history. He seemed curious. Hungry for any of the wisdom Mr. MacFarlane’s age had won him.

Constance could understand that herself. She felt moved by it - the way his head would tilt, the way he’d trip over his words in the haste to get his questions out, the way he’d listen so closely Mr. MacFarlane’s answers. It was endearing to know that Arthur still had things to learn, too.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, as they left the house, Arthur said: “I wanna show you somethin’.”

“All right,” she replied.

He led her to the edge of the property, towards the fence line. Then faced her north, where there were many mountains cluttering the horizon. To the west, the sun was setting fast, turning the sky soft pink and gold, and before them stretched the ranch in its entirety. In the pens and corrals, the cows were settling and the horses were bedding down for the night. Even the watch dogs that roamed the edges of the property, that were quick to bark at even a shadow, were growing lazy and quiet tonight, warmed by this evening sun.

“What you think?” Arthur asked.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, right away.

When she glanced at him, he was already staring at her. The wine had softened all his sharp edges, smoothed out some worry-lines, and he looked golden in the light. Warm. She smiled shyly, and he smiled back.

“Is this what you want?” she asked. “A ranch? Land like this?”

“I guess so.” He scratched his jaw and shrugged. Looked away from her and then back. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you want?” he asked, growing a little serious. “I mean - if you could have anything, what would you want?”

No one had ever asked her such a question, and it certainly took her by surprise. She’d grown up with too many needs to leave room for wants. “I don’t know. I’ve never really... been one for grand dreams, you know.”

“What about a little one then?” He leaned forward, rested his forearms on the fence. Smiled again. “Tell me a little thing you want.”

“Are you gonna give me this thing if I tell you?”

“Maybe - if I can.” He was still looking at her, with the same kind of curiosity he’d shown at dinner - except now, it was directed all at her.

She flushed and looked away, tried to sort out her thoughts and make them into words. She’d had one glass of wine, her first, and it had left her feeling quieter than usual. “I don’t know, Arthur. I... I suppose I want a home. Somewhere safe. And family, love - those things are important to me, too.” She stopped, feeling too truthful and childish. “It’s silly.”

“It ain’t silly. Not one bit.” He paused. “Maybe... maybe a few years ago I would’ve disagreed. But a man... a friend a’ mine once told me to never leave love aside. That it’s all we got.”

“He sounds wise.”

Arthur laughed once. “Sure. He could be - sometimes. It’s when he weren’t wise that we wound up in trouble, though.”

Between them, it was quiet for a moment. But there was a little hum around the land - the rustle of tree leaves and grass, the whinny of horses, the chirp of crickets. A low, whistling wind, as if the world was breathing.

Slowly and carefully, as to not disturb all that peace about them, Constance spoke again. “Was this man... was he in your gang?”

“Yes,” he said, which surprised her.

“Dutch?”

She feared it would anger him, but he only exhaled a quick laugh, gave her a look. “Now, how did you know that? Been readin’ up?”

Constance flushed and looked at the dirt. “Yes... I... well, I flipped through a dime novel or two.”

“You did?” He sounded amused. “When?”

She thought back to that time. She’d been shopping for Mrs. Byrd in Herbert Moon’s store, sweating and nervous with that lump of Arthur’s money burning a hole in her shoe. She’d passed the dime novels and taken the time to look at their covers. On the second shelf, one had jumped out - The Van der Lindes and the Bloody Blackwater Massacre.

She hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d picked it up and flipped through it - a mess of scribbled images and gruesome words. None of the men looked like Arthur in the sketches - they were all too mean and scowling and blood-splattered to note a similarity - but his name was mentioned many times.

She’d put it back, without reading much. At that moment, she’d thought all she’d ever have of Arthur was the memory of him - and she had not wished to spoil it any further.

Now, she was looking right into his eyes - which were blue and green in the evening sun. He seemed much kinder than those men in that book. “I read it in Armadillo,” she said. “After you left.”

“My Lord.” He was still smiling, faintly. He dug around for a cigarette and struck a match against the fence. “And you still wanted to come with me after readin’ all that nonsense?”

“Well, I thought perhaps they’d overexaggerated some things.” She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I didn’t really believe you’d taken on a whole army battalion alone and come through unscathed.”

He just smiled in a quiet kind of way that made her wonder if maybe he had done exactly that.

They went silent again, and he finished his smoke and she watched the sun dipping lower and lower on the horizon. She thought of her family, as they were never far off in her mind. She wondered if they were marveling at the sunset colors that night, as she was - or were they in the boarding house, eating dinner?

Then she glanced at Arthur again. He seemed distant, a little less good-humored now. She wondered if he was thinking of Dutch, of the people he’d left behind, too.

She reached for him, then, and pushed some hair behind his ear. He let her. So she didn’t pull away. She let her hand drift and she brushed her thumb along his cheekbone, felt the scratch of his beard against her fingertips. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled very quietly, and she was amazed at this - this little show of trust.

The sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, and the light bled out fast.

Constance pulled her hand away, and Arthur opened his eyes to look at her.

“You tired?” he asked.

She nodded.

So they went back to the cabin. She let her hand hang loose by her side, lest he want to catch it and hold it, but he didn’t. She tried not to feel disappointed.

Bedtime went easier than it had before. There was some familiarity in it now that soothed Constance. She went into the bedroom to put her nightgown on, and he gave her the privacy to do so.

When she crawled into bed, he didn’t fuss or hesitate this time. He just laid down beside her and blew out the candles.

Last night, she’d been very tired. Two night’s worth of bad sleep had caught up to her, and she’d passed out quickly, feeling someone next to her. But tonight, it was different. She couldn’t quite get comfortable. Couldn’t quite shake the thought that the someone next to her was Arthur. He radiated heat.

She carefully turned onto her other side, to face him. He was lying on his back, nearly hanging off the bed, and he was studying the ceiling very hard. He didn’t look at her, but she knew he noticed her looking at him.

“Why are you laying like that?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Hanging off the bed.”

“Didn’t wanna crowd you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

This made him laugh once, a little strained. His eyes finally flickered over to her. They were dark blue and silver in the shadows. He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something, but then he seemed to think better of it. He just stared at her instead.

“Come closer,” she said, very quietly. “You won’t crowd me.”

He was hesitating again, but this time, she didn’t take it to heart. There was something in the way he was looking at her. It reminded her of that still moment before he’d kissed her on the banks of Lake Don Julio. It excited her - that look and that memory.

Arthur shifted onto his side, facing her fully. He still didn’t touch her, but she knew if she kept staring, he would. He would kiss her again, and this time, there would be no real reason to stop.

This thought startled her. She was breathless and just a little panicked by things she hadn’t felt before. So she abruptly turned over again and faced the wall. “Goodnight,” she said.

He was quiet for a long time. She started to worry she’d offended him. She was certainly a poor wife. Did he think she was frigid?

But then she felt him resituating behind her. She felt the rumble of his voice against her back when he said, “Night, darlin’,” which made her blush and bury her face into the pillow.

It took her a very long time, after that, to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's October 26th, which means one year ago today I first played this game. Ahhh! It's made me a little nostalgic, honestly! I had no idea I'd love it as much as I did, but it kinda changed the way I looked at creativity and entertainment and it inspired me to write again after years of silence. So I owe it a lot. And still love it so much. I can't even remember any other movie, book, or game impacting me as much as this game. I'm starting a new save today in honor of this anniversary :p Feel free to share about your own experience with the game - I LOVE reading everyone's reaction/connection to it.
> 
> Also, this chapter was so hard to write so 19390303892 thank yous to followthefreedomtrail for getting me through it. It was so hard for me to finish! But Chapter 26 is one page shy of being done and flowed a lot easier for me. So that one should come out sometime this upcoming week, once all edits are done :)
> 
> I hope everyone has a good weekend :) <3


	26. The Rage in Rivers

She woke up just before dawn, when the air was still cold and the sky was barely blue. Arthur was behind her, breathing slow and deep. He was close enough that she felt no early morning chill in her bones - just warmth.

Constance sat up and climbed over him carefully, as to not wake him. She’d done the same thing the morning previous, and he hadn’t stirred at all, just as he didn’t stir now. It surprised her, what a heavy sleeper he was.

She made coffee in the kitchen and stared out the window, watching for the sun and thinking of her family. Her father, mostly. She wondered if there would ever be a sunrise that didn’t remind her of the things she’d lost.

There had been some mornings, back in Pennsylvania, when her father would wake her before the dawn, while the rest of the house was sleeping. He’d have two fishing poles ready, and she’d rise up out of her bed without any hesitation, without any questions at all. They’d walk down to the creek, and through the tree branches, they’d watch the sky as it turned red and pink with sunrise.

Her father, who was quick to quote scripture to anyone else, at any other time, never said much on these trips. She’d often wondered why. Did he see God between those branches? Was he struck silent by His majesty?

But one morning, when Constance was fifteen and wondering when she’d see God herself, she’d found her father looking at her instead of the sky. He’d smiled and there’d been such understanding in that smile, in the silence between them. She’d realized his quiet was for her, for them and their time watching for God.

Now, the silence just seemed sad, so Constance went back into the bedroom and tried to wake Arthur. It was quite the task. Saying his name only earned her a few grunts, so she had to resort to pushing at his shoulder.

When he finally got up and came into the kitchen, he was grumpy. She presented him with a cup of coffee right away, and he remembered his manners enough to say thank you, though his voice was low and rough and gravelly with sleep.

She sat across from him, watched as he yawned and then sipped from his cup. His hair was tangled, and he had pillow-marks on his cheek. “Did you not sleep well?”

He rubbed at his eye, grunted again. “No, I think I slept too well. I feel half-dead.”

“I shouldn’t have woken you up.”

He shook his head. “I’d have slept through the whole mornin’ if you hadn’t. We gotta get movin’. Looks like the weather’s cleared up again.”

Constance glanced out the window. It was a red sunrise that morning, bleeding orange light over the sky. There were no clouds that she could see.

They moved quickly after that. Only a half-hour later, with their packing done and the sun finally cresting over the mountains, they said goodbye to the MacFarlanes. Bonnie made Constance promise to write whenever they settled somewhere, and Mr. MacFarlane told them to send a telegram if they ever needed any help with the ranch. Arthur shook his hand and thanked him.

Then they were off again.

As they bumped along the road and the sun rose high overhead, Constance looked to Arthur and said, “How long will it take us to get to Big Valley?”

“Prolly a few weeks.”

Her spirits fell a little. Wagon travel was not comfortable and she’d certainly done a lot of it - more than she’d ever hoped for. Back home, she’d been surrounded by people with a fever for travel. She’d never fallen prey to it, yet now, she found herself halfway across the country, traveling again with no real destination in mind.

She glanced at Arthur again. “Do you have any idea where we’ll go after Big Valley?”

He resituated his hat and answered her honestly. “Not really. We’ll be in Fontaine after we cross out of Big Valley. I ain’t never been to Fontaine before, so I ain’t never caused trouble there. That’s part of the appeal.”

“I see,” she said, smiling to herself. She looked around, at the greenery. Colors were growing richer, less sun-bleached. The trees were multiplying, casting whole big patches of shade, and the grass was thicker here, too. They were finally moving out of desertland.

Then, she heard the roar of a river - very faint but unmistakable - and grew excited. “Is that the Lower Montana?”

Arthur nodded, smiled at her eagerness. “Sure is.”

Constance squinted into the distance, but a rider came into view before the river. He was soaked to the bone and looked shaken and he came up on them much too fast - fast enough that Arthur’s hand fell to his pistol.

“You two intendin’ to cross the Montana?” the man asked when he drew near. His face was blistered with sunburn, and he wasn’t wearing a hat. He looked just as wild and emaciated as his horse.

“Maybe,” said Arthur.

“Well, I just tried to cross - nearly drowned. It’s up ‘cause of the rains. I ain’t never seen it ragin’ like that. You two ain’t never gonna make it in that wagon.”

Arthur didn’t take his hand off his pistol.

The man noticed and held up his gloveless, filthy hands. “Go see for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

They went and saw for themselves. As the wagon made the climb down an embankment and the sound of water grew louder, Arthur kept glancing over his shoulder, looking for that man.

“Is he following us?” asked Constance.

“Not that I can see.”

It all made her very uneasy. She started glancing behind the wagon, too, but she only saw empty prairie land.

The man, despite his suspicious nature, had not been lying about the river. When it came into sight, Arthur cursed and pulled the horses to a stop. The water was high and moving fast, roaring loudly. Constance knew without Arthur saying it - there was no way the wagon was making it across.

“What should we do?” she asked.

Arthur sighed and pulled out his map again, stretched it over their laps. He looked for a moment, then pointed. “We can move east a lil’, try crossing up here - past Stillwater Creek. I think there’s a bridge up that way.”

“Okay,” she said. So Arthur got the wagon turned around and they left the raging river behind them.

 

* * *

 

As the sun started setting, the land turned an even richer green. Some moisture came back into the air, and before long, Constance could see willow trees and cattails. The ground turned a little swampy, and the horses slowed in all the muck.

Constance had not caught sight of that man again, though Arthur still kept looking. He tried to do it subtly, but she was too aware of him for such things to slip past her notice.

“There used to be a lil’ cabin up here,” said Arthur, after a long bout of silence. “Maybe we could stay there for the night.”

“No one lives there?”

“Not anymore,” he said. “Used to be an old man that lived in it. I was in the area, few years back. He didn’t shoot at me, so I stopped to chat with him. He kept talkin’ ‘bout his wife, and the next thing I knew, I was out tryin’ to find a bunch of goddamn flowers for this bouquet he was makin’ her. Anyway - I found ‘em. Brought ‘em back. Then he invites me in for tea, and I met his wife, all right. She was dead as a doornail and nearly mummified - sittin’ in a rocker with a lil’ teacup in her lap. The man just went on like she was alive, and I excused myself as quick as I could. Came back a few weeks later - just to check in - and they was both gone. Ain’t sure where.”

Constance was floored. By the man and his dead wife and her teacup, by the image of Arthur hunting around for flowers. She said, “That poor man - how macabre.”

Arthur shrugged. “Well - he seemed happy enough. I reckon he just couldn’t let go of the past. Who am I to judge for that.”

“I guess it’s hard to let go sometimes.”

“Sure.”

They were quiet again, after that, until the cabin came into view. It was a tiny little thing, situated on a spider-web of creeks. The water stretched out like veins in all directions and pooled in one spot, where there was a dock and a cluster of cattails on the shore.

“There’s some good pickerel in that pond,” said Arthur, as he pulled the horses to a stop.

“You fish?” she asked.

“Well, I try, anyway.” He climbed down off the wagon and went around to help her.

She ignored his hand and hopped down herself, felt her boots sink in the spongy earth. It was evening, now, and the air was golden and thick with mosquitoes. She was glad they would be sleeping indoors, even if the cabin looked more than a little derelict.

“You sure no one lives there?” she asked but she couldn’t see how anyone would want to.

“I’ll go check,” said Arthur. “You stay here.”

She frowned but he was already moving towards the shack. He knocked on the door, waited for a moment, then went inside, his hand on his gun. Constance fanned at her face, glanced at the pond, where bugs were skating over the water and fish were surfacing to feed on them.

“Ain’t no one here,” said Arthur, reappearing from the cabin. “You go on inside. I’ll take care of the horses.”

Constance shook her head. “No, I want to help.”

This made Arthur sigh, but at least he didn’t argue over it. He showed her what to do, how to unharness the horses and how to treat the equipment. Then he handed her a brush. “You remember how to use this?”

“Yes,” she muttered, which made him chuckle beneath his breath.

She brushed the white horse, and he brushed the black one. They worked together in silence as the evening grew duskier and cicadas and frogs grew louder.

Constance kept glancing to that pond, where the fish were really jumping now. “We should try to catch a few - for dinner.”

Arthur followed her line of sight then glanced back at her. Even shadowed as he was by his hat, she knew he was surprised. “You know how to fish?”

“Yes,” she said, just a shade proud. “My father taught me.”

They finished up with the horses, and Arthur brought out two finishing rods and they headed to the dock. She asked him why he had two poles, and he blushed a little and said he had a bad habit of breaking them so he carried an extra one now. He said he was a clumsy idiot and then exhaled a sheepish laugh.

“You aren’t an idiot,” she said.

He’d pulled a tackle box from the wagon and was digging around inside, trying to find some lures. They were both sitting on the dock, cross-legged, with that tackle box between them. “I fear I’ve got you completely fooled, then, if that’s what you think.”

“It’s what I think. I won’t be persuaded otherwise.”

“Maybe we’re both idiots, then,” he said but smiled up at her, from beneath the brim of his hat.

She smiled back and felt playful enough to push at his shoulder.

He found two lures he liked and offered to tie one on for her, but she refused and did it herself which made her feel more competent than usual. Arthur watched her work and said she was good with knots, and that compliment was enough to make her blush.

That made her wonder if maybe he was right - maybe she was a fool.

They sat themselves on the edge of the dock with their legs dangling, and they started casting.

She thought they might talk a little. It was the kind of warm, gentle evening that stirred up conversation. She remembered a few nights like this back home. Her and her grandmother would sit out on the back porch and listen to the insects and her grandmother would talk about her childhood, all the things she got into, the pranks she’d play on her siblings. Constance would ask her questions and listen to the answers, and they would go on like this for hours, until the light was very weak and her grandmother would start nodding off in her rocker.

But tonight, there wasn’t much talk. It seemed neither her nor Arthur wanted to disturb the quiet around them.

They both caught one fish apiece. Constance’s catch was slightly bigger, which made Arthur sigh loudly and made her smile.

It was all fun until she remembered her family again - Gideon in particular, who loved more than anything to fish. She told Arthur as much as they packed up their fishing poles.

“He’s a good kid,” said Arthur.

“Yes,” Constance replied and left it at that, in case Arthur got the notion that she was terribly homesick again. She simply didn’t have the energy for that conversation.

They cleaned the fish on a small table outside the cabin. Constance felt Arthur watching her, and when she glanced over, he looked away. Then chuckled beneath his breath.

“What is it?” she asked, frowning.

“Nothin’. I just weren’t expectin’ you to know how to clean fish, is all.” He worked on skinning his own catch. He was very quick with it - efficient - like he’d done it a thousand times, which he probably had.

Her father had taught her how to clean fish, and she wondered who had taught Arthur. But she was too shy to ask, so she just shrugged at him and went back to deboning.

“You was awful squeamish over dressin’ that rabbit you killed,” Arthur said, a few moments later.

Constance glanced over at him again, caught the end of a subtle smile. “I wouldn’t say I was squeamish over it.”

“You sure got awfully pale.”

“Well, I managed, didn’t I?”

He looked at her, and there was a little pause between them - a special kind of silence she was beginning to recognize. He’d stirred up those memories again, by mentioning the rabbit. She thought he might be remembering, too - but there was too much space between them. One of them would have to step forward to close the gap.

Arthur finally just smiled and looked away and said that she had managed just fine. That was the end of it, and Constance felt the same little dip of disappointment she’d felt the night before, when he hadn’t caught hold of her hand.

After the fish were cleaned, they went inside the cabin. Constance wasn’t surprised by the poor state it was in - it hadn’t looked promising from the outside, after all - but she was disenchanted. The floor was littered with debris, the sink piled with old and broken dishes. There was a bed in the corner, with ripped sheets and a lumpy mattress. Beside it lay a dresser, with the drawers pulled open - empty except for cobwebs and dust.

“It ain’t very nice,” Arthur said. “Sorry.”

Constance gave him a look. “Why are you sorry?”

This seemed to embarrass him. He shrugged and ducked his head and moved past her, to get a fire started in the stove so they could cook their fish.

“Do you want me to cook them?” she asked.

“I got it.”

“I thought you had a habit of burning things,” said Constance, unable to help herself. This fine evening air had made her feel a little lighter.

“I only burn things sometimes.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding.

He sent a scowl over his shoulder, which earned a smile from her. Then he said, “Why don’t, instead of standin’ there and smartin’ off, you go out to the wagon and find somethin’ for us to eat with these fish?”

“All right,” she said and went back outside. The sunset had come and gone and so had all the warm colors. It was blue and violet, now - the air cooling and the nightsounds starting in full force.

Constance made the trek up a steep bank, where the wagon was parked. She came around behind it and jolted when she met a pair of very wide eyes.

She jerked to a halt, too stunned to gasp.

It was the man from earlier - the one who had warned them about the river. He looked panicked and sickly - and staring into those eyes of his, for a moment, she could not help but feel pity. Then she saw his arms were loaded down with food - her and Arthur’s food - and the pity faded out as quick as it came.

He must have seen the change in her face, and he started talking, very fast, the words stuttered and tripping. “P-please, miss. Please. I-I’m starvin’. I ain’t got no prospects. I’m just... I’m a traveler and things has been tough and I -”

Constance was barely listening. All she saw was his greasy hair and rotting teeth and his arms full of her food. Some kind of quiet rage was rising in her, but when she spoke, her voice was soft and still. “Put those things back.”

The man blinked. His eyes darted all over, from her, to the wagon, to the food in his arms, and then back. “Please, miss. I ain’t got nothin’.”

“You could hunt something.”

“I ain’t got any guns! Can’t you see that?” He twisted so she could see the empty holster on his hip. “I’m a godly man, miss. I don’t like carrying weapons, as they only kill folk when tempers run hot, and I -”

“You’re a godly man? You’re stealing from us.” Constance glanced at the cabin. She’d closed the door on her way out, but if she shouted, she knew Arthur would hear. She thought about what the man had just said about tempers running hot and people getting killed.

“I know, I’m sorry - but what else could I have done?”

“You could’ve asked us!” Constance’s gaze snapped back to the man. She felt a scowl settling deep on her face. “It isn’t right - just to take from someone.”

“I know, miss, I know! But... but well, I couldn’t ask! Your daddy damn near threw down on me when I was just tryin’ to warn you folks ‘bout the river!”

“He isn’t my father, he’s my husband. And if you don’t clear off, I’m gonna call for him.”

The man’s face went bloodless, and his splotches of sunburn stood out like a fever flush. “Please, please - don’t do that. I... I didn’t mean no harm.”

“Then get moving,” said Constance.

He hesitated, his arms still filled with a stolen load. He stared Constance down, maybe hoping for pity again or some kind of hesitation. But he surely didn’t find either and finally, he nodded. “All right. I’ll go.”

“Put those things back, too.”

“Please, miss, please - I’m starvin’ and -”

“Put them back or I’ll scream. My husband - he’s only just inside. He won’t be as understanding as I will - I promise you that.”

This seemed to be a threat the man took to heart. He quickly put the stolen food back, and only when his hands were empty again did he pause and look to Constance once more, pleading in his eyes.

“Go on,” she said.

He turned to go.

But then her conscience kicked in.

She thought of her mother - who would give her last morsel of food to anyone who needed it. Who walked in a godly light so bright that it sometimes blinded her and made her foolish. But Constance had never doubted her mother was good. And she knew her mother would be disappointed in Constance now.

“Wait,” said Constance to the man. “Wait. Take these.”

He paused and peeped over his shoulder, saw the two cans she was holding out to him. He turned slowly and took them, looked at the label. “Corn?”

Constance scowled. “If you think that’s unfair, after you’ve just tried to rob us, then give them back.”

He hugged the cans closer to his chest. “N-no, miss. No. Thank you - it’s very kind.”

Constance just stared at him. “You better go now. And don’t come back.”

He said okay. He promised and thanked her again and then he was off, disappearing between the willows, where he must have left that poor, malnourished horse he’d been riding earlier.

Constance stood there for a moment, in the quiet - listening and thinking and breathing. Then she climbed into the wagon, found two cans of beans and some hardtack, and she waited a little while longer - but the man did not reappear.

She walked back to the cabin.

Arthur was just finishing with the fish. Over his shoulder, he said, “Well, you’ll be happy to know I didn’t manage to burn anything.”

Constance didn’t reply, and so he looked over at her, where she hovered in the doorway.

“You all right?” he asked, as soon as he saw her expression.

She looked at him and wondered if he would have killed that man, had he been the one who caught him stealing. She wanted to ask him, but she couldn’t, without telling him they’d nearly been robbed. And she realized it didn’t matter, anyway. She’d been the one to catch the thief. She hoped she hadn’t killed him herself, by only giving him those two cans.

“I’m perfect,” she told Arthur and smiled for him. She moved out of the threshold, into the cabin, and closed the door behind herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN! I hope everyone has a fun and safe night! <3 
> 
> Okay. So next chapter is already being annoying. It might be a tiny bit longer before I update again, but I never really know. My writing flow is up and down! I just wanted to throw a warning out there! If I disappear longer than usual, it isn't because I've lost love for the story - I'm just struggling with Chapter 27. Ugh. Does anyone have any suggestions for finding a good writing rhythm? I'm just curious! I've heard different things throughout the years: write at a certain time every day, write alone, write with music, etc. What helps you?
> 
> One million thank you's again to followthefreedomtrail for beta reading and being such a good cheerleader and being so kind! <3 And a million thanks to all the folks still hanging in! It's a joy to sit down and read all the comments and just chitchat with everyone xx


	27. Many Are the Afflictions

The trees caught the heat of the day, so that even when the sun finally disappeared, her warmth remained, trapped and held close to the earth. Familiar things could live in that warmth - crickets and nightbirds and cicadas - and their sounds made Constance homesick and quiet.

Arthur put a plate of food in front of her, but she did not feel hungry. She looked out the window, into the night, and wondered about that starving man. Her mind stretched further, all the way back to Armadillo, and she wondered about her family. Were they fed and warm and protected, as she was?

“You feelin’ sickly?”

Constance glanced to Arthur, who’d settled across from her at the table. She’d expected him to be halfway done with his own plate by now, but he hadn’t taken a bite. He was staring at her instead, his eyes watchful and golden in the lamplight.

“No, I’m fine,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged and reached around for his satchel, where he’d hung it on his chair. He pulled out a flask, unscrewed the cap, took a drink. Then he picked up his fork and knife and cut up his fish. “You been kinda quiet, is all.”

She didn’t think this was much cause for concern. She was often quiet, and he surely knew that by now. “I’m only thinking,” she said.

“Yeah? ‘Bout what?”

“Nothing, really.”

He took a bite of his food and chewed slow, nodding. His eyes were now fixed on something behind her, above her left shoulder. “You didn’t... didn’t have one of them spells or nothin’ by the wagon, did you?”

Constance kept her affliction close to her chest, a shameful and sinful secret despite her father’s attempts to convince her otherwise. She had quickly come to realize, even as a young girl, that her father’s beliefs were not shared by others. Once they’d seen her spasm and convulse, people did not believe there was any godliness to it at all. Some were cruel. Others were wary or pitying. Most just watched her, like they were waiting for it to happen again.

Had Arthur been watching her this way, too? She thought back to the past few days, the way his eyes always seem to track her. She’d been silly to think this meant something.

Now, she knew.

“Did my mother tell you?” she asked him, quietly.

He often dipped his head to hide behind his hat, but when it counted, he looked at her straight, just as he did now. “I heard it from Sneaky first. But your mother explained it for me.”

Constance nodded. She was feeling sicker than before, and she wanted to do something with her hands to distract herself. So she started cutting up her fish into tiny, careful little bites. “Yet you still married me.”

Arthur made a sound. “It ain’t like you got syphilis or some such nonsense.”

She glanced up again, stared at him from across the table. “Some people say it’s of the devil - what I have.”

He looked to be fighting against a smile. “Oh, c’mon now. You ain’t got any devilish tendencies in you, girl. And folks is always quick to blame the devil for what they don’t understand, anyway. That’s just the way things is - don’t mean it’s true.”

Her father used to say something similar, only he said it was God who took the blame for the unknown. And she certainly had blamed God before. She wondered why He thought to punish her in this way, for some sin she could not even remember committing.

“My father always told me that this... condition wasn’t a curse but a gift,” she said, quietly. “A gift from God and not the devil. And that if I stopped to listen, I might hear God speak.”

She paused and glanced at Arthur again, to see how he was taking to all this religious talk. He was watching her closely again, and when their eyes met, he nodded for her to continue.

“I never had the heart to tell my father I don’t hear anything when I have these fits - it’s only nothingness,” she said, in a little rush. There was some relief in saying those things aloud, getting them out of her head and into the open air. “It’s like... like a dreamless sleep where you don’t even know how much time has passed.”

Arthur took another sip from his flask then cleared his throat. “Does it hurt?”

“I don’t even know it’s happening - not until I wake up. Then there’s a pain - right here.” She touched at her forehead. “Like a heartbeat. But it fades, eventually.”

He frowned, and she feared he would ask her more questions but he didn’t. He only offered her the flask.

She’d never had strong liquor before, but she took it from him. The first sip made her cough. A powerful burn slid down her throat but left a pleasant kind of warmth behind. It helped her next words come out easy. “I wanted my father to think I was special - that’s why I didn’t tell him I don’t see anything. I liked that - people thinking I was special rather than just... strange and cursed.”

“You ain’t strange and cursed,” he told her as he took the flask back. He took care not to accidentally touch her, and he hadn’t been so careful before.

At the lake, he’d held her with a powerful kind of force. He’d kissed her fiercely enough that even the memory of it still made her blush. And on the walk back, he’d done the same. And in Mrs. Byrd’s parlor, too. He’d held onto her without one hint of delicacy, almost rough, but like he believed she could take it. Like she could withstand all his force without breaking.

Things were different now. They had been different for some time, since the wedding. She’d fooled herself into thinking it was only gentlemanly hesitance. Those things he’d said on their wedding night had made sense at the time.

But now, a new thought was dawning and her stomach turned once more. She glanced up at him and he offered his flask again. She took another sip, so she would have courage.

“Is that why you’ve been so hesitant with me?” she asked.

He scratched his jaw, waited for her to hand the flask back. “Hesitant?”

She felt her cheeks burn hot, but still, she took another sip of that liquid fire. With her throat warm and loose, she said, “In touching me. Bedding me.”

His eyes immediately skipped away from her, and he let out an uneven laugh. She thought she might see a little color rising in his face. “Jesus. I-I already told you the reasonin’ behind that -”

“Perhaps you said those things to spare my feelings,” she said, her fingers flexing around the flask. “Is it - or is it not - why you don’t want to consummate our marriage?”

He met her eyes again, because it counted. “I never said I didn’t want to.”

She took another big sip from the flask to give herself something to do. When she handed it back to him, this time, their fingers touched. His thumb stroked the length of hers, quick and light, and then the connection was severed once more.

Constance sat back in her chair, feeling much too hot. The liquor and his gaze and her embarrassment. She tried to keep her voice smooth and steady when she spoke again. “Then _why_? Why are you so...”

Distant. This is what she wanted to say, but she was not tipsy enough to do it.

Arthur seemed to understand nonetheless. He sighed and shook his head and looked at something across the room. “You’re very young,” he said, quietly.

She didn’t feel young. She hadn’t felt young in a very long time. She told him as much, but he only shook his head again. He drank some more from his flask, and then, when it was empty, he finally looked at her again.

His eyes were blue and sad, and it lulled her into a false calm until he spoke. “You ever even been with a man, Constance?”

She flushed so deeply that she thought she might never cool off. She looked away, to her lap, where her fingers twisted in the fabric of her dress. “Of course not,” she whispered.

There was a beat of silence. Then she heard another heavy sigh. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry.”

It took her a moment, but she finally gathered up the courage to meet his gaze again. His eyes were steady, tinged with sadness still. She remembered how easy it had been to kiss him that first time, to lean into that gaze.

“You were… you were my first kiss,” she whispered.

The nightsounds outside grew louder for a moment, as she watched him and he watched her. A small smile touched his lips. It was a warm, kind smile, but it embarrassed her nonetheless.

“You suspected as much,” she said, nodding.

“A lil’, sure.”

“Was I so terrible at it?"

“No,” he said firmly and without any hesitation and this made her blush again and look away. His words were careful and low when he spoke again. “There’s just... there’s an innocence about you. And the truth be known - that’s why I’m hesitant. I’m... I’m hesitant to taint that.”

“You’re my husband,” she said, peeping up at him again. “It wouldn’t be a sin. You wouldn’t be… tainting anything.”

He just smiled like he wasn’t so sure about that. Then his expression tapered off into something wholly somber and distant. He looked at his hands, where they rested on the tabletop.

Their dinner still sat in front of them, cold and long-forgotten.

“I had a son,” Arthur said, so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. “Long time ago now. I’m also hesitant to... to take the chance of having another child.” Finally, his eyes found hers again, from beneath his lashes. “You understand?”

Constance was afraid, at first, to make a sound. She didn’t want to startle away this new trust. This transparency. Very carefully, she said, “You had a son.”

Arthur nodded and sat back in his chair. His voice came out stronger now, detached, like he was hardening himself to talk about it. “He died. Was killed, along with his mother. Some robbers did it. I weren’t there to protect them.”

Her mother had always been so good at handling painful confessions. Constance was not so skilled, but still she sensed any pity or gentle words would not be welcomed by Arthur. Instead, she said, “May I ask his name?”

Arthur looked at her again. “Isaac.”

“Like the son of Abraham.”

“Like the son of Abraham,” he said, nodding. “The one God asked to be sacrificed - to test Abraham’s devotion.”

Constance tilted her head. “For a man who doesn’t believe in God or church you know a good deal about scripture.”

“Well. His name was his mother’s doin’. She told me the story.” Arthur looked away again, scratched his jaw. “She was a good girl - exceptin’ her dalliance with me. Eighteen when I met her, eighteen when she fell pregnant. I was young and stupid and I weren’t... I weren’t careful with her. I tried to do right by her, though. I sent her and the boy money. Came to visit when I could, but sometimes, a year or two would get past before I’d make it back to them. I was tryin’ to live two lives. The boy asked me once why I couldn’t stay and I told him other people needed me, too. The gang. But I reckon that was just me bein’ a fool and a coward. And Eliza and the boy were the ones who paid for my ignorance.”

It was quiet after that. Constance bit back any words of sorrow. Instead, she reached across the table and caught hold of one of his hands. She squeezed once, and he allowed her to turn his palm over. He watched as she traced the lines and cracks in his skin. He let her do this.

Then he said, “I shoulda told you ‘bout this sooner. I’m sorry.”

“It hadn’t come up,” she replied. “You told me when the time was right.”

She held her own guilt close, for a moment. Then, she let it go and said, “A man stole from us tonight.”

Arthur straightened in his chair. “What?”

Constance pulled her hand back and met his eyes. He didn’t look angry, exactly, only shocked. “I caught him stealing,” she said. “The man from the river. When I went outside to get food, I saw him.”

Arthur was struggling against the information, his brow creased. “Did he... did he hurt you?”

“No. He was afraid.”

“Why didn’t you call for me?”

Constance flushed, felt a touch of shame. “I thought... I thought you might kill him. Now, I believe I rushed to judgment.”

Arthur scoffed, rolled his eyes. “I highly doubt that. Prolly would’ve shot the bastard dead.”

She ignored this. “I told him to put the things back and leave. He did.”

“He could’ve hurt you,” Arthur said.

“But he didn’t.”

Arthur sighed again, very tired and irritable. “I can’t protect you if you don’t call for me, Constance.” He paused, fumbled around for the right words. “I- I promised your mother I’d protect you.”

Constance felt touched by this, warmed by the sincerity in his voice. “I’ll call for you next time.”

This seemed to settle him, at least a bit. He glanced out the window, peering hard into the darkness.

“I don’t think he’ll come back,” said Constance.

“I’m still gonna go out and check.”

It seemed he wanted to get away for a moment, to take a breath. She understood that, so she simply said, “All right,” and let him go.

 

* * *

 

Arthur walked outside and felt drunk. He wasn’t really - not spinning drunk, anyway. Just warm enough to be real honest. With himself and with that girl.

He went to the wagon and found it undisturbed. The horses were grazing a few feet away, barely visible in the low light. Deeper in the treeline, he could hear wild boars screeching and the rustle of startled rabbits. He tried to let all these sounds soothe and settle him, but he felt too wound up for that to help.

He sat on the back of the wagon and had himself a cigarette. It was dangerous to be alone with his thoughts like this, but it was more dangerous to be in that warm little cabin, with that girl looking at him the way she did.

Then his mind shifted. His thoughts turned to Isaac, and because he’d already picked that old wound open and raw again, he tried to recall the exact shape of the boy’s face, the color of his eyes.

Arthur had put those memories to rest a long time ago. He’d buried them deep. And now, when he felt he could stand to look at them again, the images had faded a little. Turned brittle.

“Goddammit,” Arthur said, to no one. Just empty air. Then he finished up his cigarette and walked back to the cabin.

He hadn’t thought to knock before he came inside, and he caught the girl changing into her nightgown. She was only wearing her chemise, and it was very threadbare and flimsy and he could see the shape of her beneath it. He stared a moment too long, and she noticed but didn’t scold him.

Then he remembered himself - averted his eyes and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry,” she said. He heard the rustle of fabric, and then she appeared in front of him, dressed in her gown. She didn’t seem quite as shy as he thought she might be. “Are you coming to bed?”

“Ah - well, I was gonna... write a bit,” he said, rather lamely. He always felt very silly, mentioning his journal. But he wanted to sit and find the words to explain this evening, to make sense of it. And if that failed, he thought he’d try to draw Isaac.

He saw some sinking disappointment in Constance’s face, though - very brief and she hid it quick enough - but he’d seen it.

“Oh, okay,” she said and went towards the bed. Since he’d been outside, she’d found some different sheets somewhere and stretched them over the mattress, made it look just a little more inviting. He took a quick glance to the table and saw she’d already cleaned away their uneaten food, too. She’d washed the dishes.

He blew out a sigh and turned it into a yawn. “Well, I’m pretty tired. I guess I’ll turn in, too.”

She was already lying down, her face towards the wall and her back to him. “You can write if you want,” she said softly. “I don’t mind.”

“No. I’m tired. I already told you.” He pulled off his boots and undid his pants and belt buckle. Slipped out of his suspenders. He hung his guns on the top right post of the bed so he could grab them quick if he needed to. Then he pulled back the blankets and got into bed next to Constance.

The haze of liquor was starting to lift and his thoughts were getting tangled and fast. He felt just how raw and tired and on-edge he was now. He regretted telling the girl so much and regretted not telling her sooner, too. He worried about how thin she was getting and how little she’d eaten and how ill-equipped he was for the job of taking care of her.

He thought about other, older things too: John, as a young boy with rope burns around his neck and matted hair and such mistrust in his eyes. Tilly, when he’d first found her - a child with the oldest, saddest eyes he’d ever seen, and a jumpiness around men. Jack, when he was first born - screaming and wailing and red. Abigail, crying and asking him where John was and Arthur thinking: _this is how Eliza must have looked, must have felt_.

He thought of all those letters he had in his satchel.

He thought of Hosea and a specific fishing trip, in which Arthur had been young and troubled and he’d yelled at the old man and told him he didn’t want any of his goddamn advice. He thought of that hurt in Hosea’s gaze. That brief and vulnerable flicker. That realization of how deep you could hurt the ones you loved. It haunted him still, all these years later.

He even thought of Constance’s people - those kids. The boy who reminded him of Isaac. The girls who were so innocent. He knew that innocence was fleeting. The world would surely burn it right out of them, and that made him angry and sad and hopeless.

Then, the mattress dipped and Constance rolled over onto her side, to face him. She just looked at him, for the longest time, and then she touched his cheek. She traced the line of his beard, the curve of his eyelashes, the slope of his nose.

He was scared to move, in case she stopped.

Then she said, “Thank you.”

“What for?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. Only curled closer to him, pressed her forehead against his shoulder, and he waited and listened, as she relaxed into sleep beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out! Their discussions changed about a million times, as did the POV. Hopefully, the next chapter won't take so long! :) 
> 
> Thank you for your patience, everyone! Thank you for all the suggestions, too! I really buckled down and made a Spotify list for this story and it helped immensely! I can't wait to implement other suggestions, too! :) 
> 
> Also, thanks as always to followthefreedomtrail, the kindest and best cheerleader ever and such an amazing writer, too (everyone should check her stories out they're so wonderful)! <3333
> 
> Again - hopefully the next chapter will be out soon! :)


	28. Deep Dark Woods

Arthur had been traveling most of his life. He was used to bedding down in the dirt, beneath stars and an unfamiliar stretch of sky. He’d lived in this fashion longer than he’d lived any other way, and so he’d grown accustomed to it.

Constance was not accustomed to these things, though. She knew what it was to settle somewhere long enough to put down roots. She’d been raised in a home, with a family, beneath the same roof for many years, and in his experience, people grew used to those comforts and missed them when they were gone.

He thought she might tire of this endless travel. Tire of his poor company.

But the next morning came and she rose up without delay. She cooked breakfast over the stove and braided up her hair and seemed excited by the prospect of moving into West Elizabeth.

“How far?” she asked him and smiled. She was still a little sleepy-eyed and wearing her nightgown.

“Oh, prolly only a few hours away now. We’ll likely make it to Tall Trees ‘fore nightfall - now, finish eatin’ your breakfast.”

She rolled her eyes but did as instructed. He was happy to see her putting down a little food.

They got packed and moving before the sun was up proper. They went north until the swampland dried up and the Lower Montana appeared to them again. It was still raging, but there was a bridge waiting, just as Arthur had hoped.

The river cut a line between swamp and prairie, between New Austin and West Elizabeth. Once they’d passed it over, they were in a new state, and Constance smiled when Arthur told her as much.

They headed west again, but only for a bit. Then they would redirect to the north and make their climb up a mountain, into Tall Trees.

Before that, though, Arthur pulled the wagon over and forced the girl to eat lunch. He could tell she was irritated by the delay, by his mother hen concern, but he distracted her by naming all the plants around them.

Wild tobacco and mint, lavender sage. These things grew like wild here, so close to the river. Arthur told her how they could be used, and she wound up picking a whole bunch of the mint.

“We can use it to season things,” she said.

“Ain’t familiar with the concept.”

This earned him a little laugh, which he thought to be a good sign. He’d been made nervous by last night’s conversation. He did not know how it would settle in the light of day. He knew family was important to the girl, and he’d more or less admitted he’d abandoned his.

She didn’t seem to see it that way, though, and he wasn’t a good enough man to set her straight on the subject.

After lunch, he was too lazy to get back up right away. So he laid back in the grass, listened to the roar of the river in the distance. The sounds of grasshoppers and birds. The girl breathing next to him.

“Shouldn’t we get moving?” she asked.

Arthur had his eyes closed by now, his hat tilted down low and his hands behind his head. He was just getting comfortable. “Sure.”

There was a beat of silence. Then a sigh. “But you aren’t moving.”

“We’ll get goin’ soon.”

“You said we could be in Tall Trees before nightfall.”

Arthur cracked open an eye and turned his head to see her. She was sitting with her knees pulled tight to her chest and a scowl on her face. “You see that mountain behind you?”

She twisted to look. “Yes.”

“We climb it and we’ll be in Tall Trees. We made better time than I thought. So we can reward ourselves with a rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

Arthur shut his eyes again and resituated himself. “That’s your problem.”

“Arthur.”

He smiled but didn’t take another peep at her. He’d slept poorly the night before. All the talk of the past had drudged up bad memories and dreams. He couldn’t recall them now, but they still lingered in his mind. As faint and foul as firesmoke.

He drifted for a while until his nose started itching and he woke with a sneeze. He sat up sharply, noting the sun’s shift in the sky. The girl hadn’t shifted far, though. She was still sitting next to him, with a book in her lap.

He settled back on his elbows. “Whatcha readin’?”

She didn’t look up from the pages. “American Inferno.”

Arthur groaned, collapsing into the grass once more. He watched the slow and lazy drift of clouds overhead. “Where’d you find that?”

“It was in the back of the wagon. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Course not.” Arthur scrubbed at his eyes. He’d forgotten he’d kept the book, but he wasn’t all that surprised. He held onto things too long. “You like it?”

“It seems a bit pretentious,” said Constance.

This made Arthur laugh. “That was Dutch’s book. And he’d likely keel over if he heard you talkin’ that way.”

Constance made an unimpressed sound. Then she said, “Do you like it?”

“I can hardly read that nonsense.”

“It is dreadfully boring,” she said and he heard the book snap shut. “What’s your favorite novel, then?”

“I ain’t quite dignified enough to have a favorite novel, darlin’. Can’t say I’ve read many books in my life.”

“That should make it easier to narrow down a favorite.”

Arthur sighed and propped up on his elbows again, threw a look her way. She was turned towards him now, running her fingers idly through the grass. The wind had pulled a few strands of her hair free, and she was looking at him very seriously, like his answer was important.

“I-I don’t know. I liked the Iliad, I guess.”

“What’s that?”

“This story ‘bout a big war. A bunch of Greek gods come down and act foolish. It’s all rather silly, I guess.”

“Why do you like it, then?”

He sat up completely, dusted grass off the back of his head and let out an uneven laugh. “I ain’t really sure. It’s entertainin’. And it was one of the first things I read on my own.”

This really got her curiosity kicked up. “How old were you?”

Arthur turned pink and looked away from her, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh... sixteen.”

She didn’t gasp or make fun. She only said, “Who taught you?”

“Dutch. And Hosea. Both of ‘em.” Arthur cleared his throat, tried for a subject change. He had wandered enough into old memories. He wanted to be free of them. “What ‘bout you? What’s your favorite book?”

Constance didn’t press him for any more information. She only scowled as she thought deeply on his question. It took her a full minute to respond. “I suppose it would have to be Little Women.”

“The hell is that?”

“It’s very good,” she said and gave him a smile. It stirred something in him - when he got to see that smile. “It’s about a family of women.”

“Little ones, I reckon.”

Another smile. “Well, they’re all rather young, yes. You should read it.”

“Oh, it will be my utmost priority.”

Constance tore off a handful of grass, tossed it at him.

Then they got up and started moving once more.

 

* * *

 

The sun had just started setting as they made their climb up the cliffs. There was one beautiful moment when they could look back and see two states’ worth of country - desert, swamp, prairie, and a web of rivers in between. The sun turned everything pink and gold. Constance stared for a long time, and Arthur wondered if she was thinking of her family. She didn’t seem teary, but he knew she wasn’t the crying sort, either. She kept her pain close, he thought, and he let her be.

Then he got them moving again, into the forest.

Constance seemed to relax here, in the shade of tall trees and the cover of brush. She tilted her head all around, trying to see everything.

“It’s beautiful here,” she said.

It was. The light was golden and hazy, breaking through the canopy of trees in spots. Sending warm rays of light all through the forest.

Arthur said, “We’ll get us a place close to some woods,” and this made Constance smile and blush very dark.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He was thinking about camp when he saw the first flash of movement, out of the corner of his eye. It didn’t seem right, didn’t feel right neither. It could have been a startled deer or elk, but something about the movement felt human. He listened hard but there were no sounds that didn’t belong - only the breath of tree leaves in the wind and the call of birds and bugs.

Then Constance stiffened beside him. “Arthur?”

“What?”

“I thought I... saw something.”

“Where?” he asked and she lifted her arm to point, but he caught it quickly, held her wrist. “No, no. Don’t motion to it, just tell me.”

“To the right.”

Arthur slowed the horses a little. Twilight was moving on them fast. He’d been thinking about starting a fire and having them bed down for the night. But he’d been thinking about Manzanita Post, too. It’d been many years since he’d been in these parts, but he didn’t think the encampment was too far away.

He also didn’t think those folks would be out here, in near darkness, rustling around in the woods and scaring travelers.

“I want you to grab the pistol on my hip nearest you,” he said, lowly. He was still moving the horses ahead at a good speed and keeping his eyes on the road. “Don’t act like nothin’ is different, though. Just take the gun and put it in your dress pocket.”

He expected a slew of questions, but none came. She only did as he asked. He felt the weight of his gun sliding out of the holster. She was very inconspicuous with hiding it in her skirts.

“You know how to use it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Ain’t hard. Just gotta pull the hammer back before you go to shootin’.”

“Arthur - ” There was just a little edge in her voice, now.

A man stepped out in front of them, two more by his side. All three had rifles in their hands, so Arthur pulled the horses to a hard stop and they huffed and pawed at the dirt, agitated.

“Howdy,” said the man in the middle. He wasn’t nothing Arthur hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t nothing Arthur hadn’t been before - robber, intimidator. “You got to pay to pass this road.”

There were a few other men, moving in the treeline. Arthur counted about six in total. His mind started moving fast and slow at once. He felt Constance next to him, breathing shallow and quiet.

“You hear me?” asked the middle man. He hadn’t even bothered with a bandana. Arthur could see four angry lines on his cheek, right above his beard. They looked like fingernail scratches. “I said - you gotta pay.”

“I heard you,” said Arthur. “I just don’t think we’re gonna be givin’ you anything.”

“Oh, you don’t think so?” The man looked to his friends, and they shared a laugh. When his eyes leveled back to Arthur, they looked lit up with excitement. “I do think so, though. So puts us in a spot, don’t it?”

“We ain’t got nothin’ you’d want,” said Arthur.  
“That ain’t true. You got a wagon. Horses. And a fine lil’ lady next to you. Now, she’s real pretty, ain’t she?”

Constance felt around for the gun she had in her skirts, but Arthur’s hand settled over her wrist, kept her still. They were easy targets, up on this wagon with no cover.

“How much to let us pass and be on our way?” Arthur asked.

“Now you wanna bargain.” The man chuckled, nodded his head. His hands had settled on his hips. “But I ain’t sure I do. See, I like them horses. I like that woman. Why you with him anyway, sweetheart? Ain’t he a lil’ old for you?”

Constance kept silent. She was scowling and still, but her pulse was fluttering beneath Arthur’s fingers.

“She’s a quiet one, huh?” The man looked to Arthur again, smiled with teeth. “Usually, they’re cryin’ at this point.”

“She ain’t one to rattle easy,” Arthur said.

“And neither are you. Right, big man? Now, come on off that wagon - both of you. I’m gettin’ tired of this.” The man ran his hand over his beard, then motioned at them. “Get offa there or we’ll get you down the hard way.”

“What do we do?” Constance whispered to Arthur.

“All right, get her first,” said the leader, nodding to one of his men.

The man was at the wagon in a heartbeat, clutching at the hem of Constance dress.

“Arthur -”

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered back, real quick and low. “Just go with them for now. Be ready.”

It was all he had time to say. He caught her eyes for just a brief moment. Then she was gone, pulled down from the wagon and taken out of his view.

“You next, big man.” The leader pulled his gun, waved it lazily. “Don’t make us come up there.”

Arthur held his hand up and slipped down from the wagon. His heart was starting to beat hard and his senses were turning sharp.

“That’s a nice gun you got there,” said the leader, motioning at Arthur’s hip. “Maybe you ain’t as destitute as you look.”

Arthur took a deep and steadying breath. It had been a long time since he’d had to quick draw, but he knew it would come back to him. Killing always came easy for him.

The man took a step forward, let his pistol drop, and that was the split second Arthur needed. He drew. His first shot went between the leader’s eyes. It dropped him instantly, and then there was a beat of stunned silence between the other men - the shock making them stupid. Arthur used that beat to pick off two more of the men.

Then there was nothing but chaos, a frantic scramble. Gunshots and gunsmoke.

This group had pisspoor aim, so Arthur didn’t even bother hitting the dirt. He shot one feller in the knee as he was bolting for cover. When he fell, Arthur put another bullet in his head.

Another man rushed up behind Arthur, tried to tackle him, but he hadn’t put quite enough force into the hit. Arthur slammed his elbow backward, connected with the man’s ribs. He spun and shot him dead, too.

Then he had an opening. He bolted forward and around, trying to get to the other side of the wagon, to Constance.

He found her struggling with the man who’d pulled her off the wagon. They were all tangled together and bloodied. Arthur couldn’t get a good shot in, so he rushed forward, caught the man by surprise.

They fell to the ground in an almighty scramble. This man was not like the others. He was a fighter - strong with fear and the will to live. He clipped Arthur hard in the ribs, then managed to knock the pistol free from Arthur’s hand. Arthur punched him back in the gut, and they rolled, tangling in the dirt and weeds.

The man pulled out a knife. Arthur never saw it - only heard the hiss of the blade being unsheathed. Then Constance made some kind of sound, and she was there again, clinging to the man’s back, pulling his hair, biting down on his ear, his neck.

The man forgot Arthur for a moment. He rolled off him and slashed out at Constance with that knife. He caught her, too, and she gasped, but Arthur shot forward again, grabbed the man by the face, pushed his thumbs into the man’s eyesockets as hard as he could.

The man screamed, and Arthur felt his eyes giving way. Then he felt a pain of his own - sharp and sudden - sliding between his ribs. It was enough to shock him, and that’s all the opportunity the man needed. He was back on Arthur in a heartbeat. He pulled the knife out of Arthur’s side and went to sink it in again, but Constance shouted Arthur’s name.

He looked over at her, and she slid a gun towards him. It passed over the rock and dirt, right into his hand, and the man tried stabbing Arthur one last time, in the heart. But Arthur raised the gun, cocked it, and fired.

He felt a splatter against his face, felt the sudden sagging weight of a body on top of him. The knife sunk back into Arthur’s side and pressed deep by the dead weight - but he couldn’t move yet. He was in that ringing silence, that quiet that gunfire brought on. He could only stare up at the tree branches, at the glimpses of a dark purple sky beyond.

Constance scrambled over in a second. There was a cut on her forehead, bleeding profusely, dripping into his face. He knew she must be nearly blind with all that blood.

She shoved the dead body off him and gasped, looking at the knife still stuck in his side. Her hands fluttered around it. “I... what should I do?” she asked. He expected her to be near hysterics by now, but he should have known better. Her voice was calm, quiet.

“You okay?” he asked her.

“Arthur, the knife -”

He glanced down at the hilt and pulled it out. Blood bubbled up right away, spilled over.

“Lord,” said Constance, pressing her hands against the wound. “You need stitches. I - I can stitch you up. Just wait - here. And I’ll go get -”

“Connie, we gotta move.” Arthur sat up and started feeling strange. He wasn’t hurting yet, and he knew that was worrisome. “We can’t stay here. There might be more of ‘em.”

“You can’t move like this.”

“Yes, I can. C’mon. We ain’t got time to argue it, girl.”

“Stop - just stop a moment.” She fumbled forward, her hands scrubbing over the dirt. She found the knife, the blade still slick with blood, and she cut a strip from the bottom hem of her dress. She wrapped it around his torso, pulled it tight enough to make him groan and have a hard time breathing, then she tied it.

“We gotta move,” he said, again, but his voice was turning strange.

“Okay,” she replied and helped him to his feet. It wasn’t as difficult as he thought it might be, but getting on the wagon was another story. He was losing energy fast, turning cold and lethargic. Sleepy. He wanted to sleep. But somehow, he climbed into the wagon seat and the girl followed him. She took up the reins and snapped them and the horses jolted forward.

“Christ,” Arthur said but it came out slow.

“Stay awake.” The girl tapped the side of his face.

His thoughts were turning soft now. Gentle. His whole body was slowing down, turning very peaceful. He stirred himself up enough to grab Constance’s arm. He said, “Listen. You gotta get us to Manzanita Post. I - I think it’s north from here. You can’t let me fall off the wagon ‘cause you won’t be able to get me back up here.”

“Just stay awake then,” she said.

Arthur might have laughed. He might have caught sight of the girl’s eyes in the dark. But he wasn’t sure anymore. He was already slipping forward, collapsing into something cool and calm. He might have told her, “I’ll try my best,” but that was a lie because he didn’t try at all. He didn’t fight. He just didn’t have it in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH! So sorry for the delay on this one! But here it is! And hopefully, Chapter 29 will be out a lot faster, as I already have half of it written! :) 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is still here! <3333 I know it's been a slow process! But I promise I'm not planning to abandon this story! I still love writing it (most days) and want to finish it!
> 
> I think there are probably like... six more chapters in Part II? Then we will be on to Part III, the final one! YAY! 
> 
> Thanks again for everyone who is hanging in. I'm just honestly overwhelmed by the kind comments. I can't stress that enough. It thrills me to read all the comments and to interact with everyone. I've never had such a positive experience in a fandom! Also thanks so much, as usual, to the talented followthefreedomtrail, who is an amazing writer (check out all her stuff) AND beta reader! <3333
> 
> I hope everyone had a good holiday weekend! <3 xx


	29. The Valley of the Shadow of Death

She’d thought he would die and that she would be leaving him behind, as she’d left behind her father and brother in that desert all those months ago. Surely they would be nothing but bones now. Picked clean by scavenging animals and baked dry by the sun. She did not want that for Arthur. She did not think she could bear to leave another person behind.

But her father had always said miracles appeared just when you stopped looking, and as she’d moved through the dark, pushing the horses hard and listening to Arthur’s strained breathing beside her, the light from Manzanita Post appeared, between the trees. And there seemed to be something of a miracle in that light. It was a greater miracle still when the people living there did not shoot her dead upon arrival, as bloodied and panicked as she was. They understood little English, and she was nearly wordless with fear. It could have all gone very wrong.

But one man stepped forward from the little crowd that gathered around her. He had blue eyes and blond hair, and he reminded her a great deal of Arthur, because of the kindness in his face.

She grabbed onto him, as her mother had grabbed onto Arthur many months ago. “Please help me,” she said, and he understood something - either the words or the desperation in her eyes.

He followed her back to the wagon, along with two other men. They caught sight of Arthur, bleeding and unconscious, and they put down their rifles and lifted him off the wagon and carried him into a little cabin.

A woman broke free of the crowd. She rushed everyone but Constance out of the cabin, and then she peeled back the fabric Constance had wrapped around Arthur’s midsection. She unbuttoned his shirt and then his union suit and eyed the wounds.

She made a sound that worried Constance.

“What is it? Do you... do you think he will be all right?” asked Constance, crowding nearer to the woman.

She shooed Constance back and went to a chest of drawers. She rummaged around inside for a moment then came back to Arthur with a pouch in her hand and a book of matches.

Constance started to feel very sick. She shook her head. “What are you doing?”

The woman turned up the oil lamps near the bed so she would have more light to work. In that light, Constance saw how deep the wounds on Arthur’s side looked. They were still oozing a good deal of blood.

“Hold him down,” said the woman, the first words of English she’d uttered all night.

Constance was still shaking her head. “I -”

The woman met Constance’s eyes. She looked deadly serious. “Hold him.”

Constance went to the head of the bed. She put her hands against Arthur’s shoulders, but she was too afraid to press down hard. His skin was cold and clammy beneath her touch. He did not stir at all.

The woman opened the pouch and poured some powder into one of Arthur’s wounds. Then she lit one of the matches, held it near the powder, and it caught flame.

Arthur came back to life with a nearly inhuman sound. He slammed upright, pushed right past Constance’s hands, and she struggled to catch hold of him, to calm him. He was beyond any consoling whatsoever. He was trying to push the woman away from him, and the woman was yelling at Constance, telling her to hold him, hold him, hold him.

Constance finally grabbed his shoulders. She pulled with all her strength, and he was weak enough that he fell back to the mattress, groaning, with his eyes squeezed shut. He was breathing so hard that it startled her.

Once, when she’d been a little girl, one of their cats had caught hold of a rabbit and mangled it up something awful. They’d thought it had been dead, but Constance had crept closer, later in the day, before her father’d had the time to bury it and she’d seen the rabbit hadn’t been dead at all. It had still been breathing - breathing so very hard, desperate to live, even with half its body missing.

This thought came back to her now.

She almost told the woman not to catch the second wound aflame. She was afraid it would kill him. But she knew it would kill him to leave the wound open, too. He’d lost so much blood. He could not afford to lose any more.

So Constance pushed her hands against his shoulders hard, clenched her jaw, readied for the second revival.

The woman lit the match, held it close. Again there was a spark, a flash of flame, and again, Arthur made a sound, very much like a wounded animal, but Constance was ready for it this time. She held him down against the mattress as he struggled and struggled and eventually, his fighting grew weaker, and she leaned down close to him. She brushed her hands against his face and put her forehead to his, and she breathed hard and fast with him for a moment. She spoke to him, quietly, and hoped he could hear. And then finally, he stopped breathing so desperately and she stopped, too.

She lifted up, saw the woman watching them.

The woman gave her first smile - something small and warm and mothering. She said, “Husband?”

Constance leaned back from Arthur, but she kept her hands on him. She’d moved them to his neck, where she could feel his pulse - fluttering fast but still there. “Yes,” said Constance.

The woman tended to Constance’s wounds next. She did not try to put powder in them, and Constance was very grateful for that. The woman only sewed up the cut on her forehead. She allowed Constance to sit near Arthur’s bed. Constance kept her hand on his wrist, so she could feel his pulse. It was still beating steady enough.

“Do you think he’ll be all right now?” Constance asked the woman, as she was stitching together Constance’s forehead.

“You can pray for him,” said the woman.

Constance wasn’t sure what kind of answer this was. If it was meant to be encouraging or not. She was too afraid to press for more understanding on the issue. She just tried to nod, and the woman fussed at her to be still.

“Who did this to you?” asked the woman.

“Some men.” Constance tried very hard not to think of them again, but the memory crept back, in bits and pieces. “On the road. They were trying to steal from us.”

The woman hummed and kept at her work on Constance’s forehead. “They are all dead? These men?”

Constance flinched as the needle tugged harder at her skin. “Y-yes. They...” She tried to find the words she wanted to say, but she only repeated what she’d said before. “They were trying to steal from us.”

The woman paused in her work. She patted Constance’s cheek with a rough and dry hand, which made Constance feel tired and young all at once. “You are safe now,” said the woman.

Constance was falling back into the memory now. Those bodies lying on the ground. She’d seen death before, but it had been slow - the wilting of her grandmother’s body and spirit, the same with her father and brother. These deaths had been fast and brutal and violent, and this was so different to what she’d known.

Those men - they hadn’t seemed human to her. They’d been like animals in her mind, but then she thought of her own fear, which had been wild and growling, too. She thought of Arthur and how he’d fought and how she’d fought - by tooth and nail, desperate like cornered creatures. There was no real humanity in that, either.

She had wanted to shoot that man. She’d had the gun in her hand, and she’d felt, for one brief moment, some sort of power like she’d never felt before. He was hurting Arthur, and she could have saved him - had it not been for the blood in her eyes. She would have shot that man, willingly, had she not been so blinded.

She’d shoved the gun to Arthur instead. He’d moved so fast she could not hardly process it, not even now when she had the time to. One moment, the man had been alive and fighting, and the next he’d been dead, with his brains all over Arthur’s face.

“He had to kill them,” Constance told the woman. She looked up at her, willing her to understand.

The woman looked as though she needed very little convincing. She just nodded, firm and fast. “Yes.”

“He had to. They would have killed us.”

“Yes,” the woman said again.

 

* * *

 

The woman’s name was Marta. She came from Norway, and her husband was Lars, the man who had first helped Constance outside.

Marta said this was her and her family’s cabin, but that they would sleep with another family for the night, so that Constance could rest without being disturbed.

“No, please - don’t. It won’t disturb me,” Constance said.

Marta looked unsure, but after a little more pleading from Constance, she relented. She said she would get Lars but their children would sleep in another cabin.

There were three beds, all of which were very narrow and small. Marta and Lars squeezed together on one and left an empty one for Constance, but she had no hopes in finding sleep. She sat by Arthur’s bed. She watched the rise and fall of his chest. She prayed over him, as Marta had suggested, even though her prayers were rough and vague and unformed.

Constance had sat up when her father and brother had been sick. She’d stayed awake all night, watching for their departure. She did not think it right - for someone’s soul to leave without notice. They’d been breathing fast and hard, like that rabbit from her childhood, and then, their breathing had slowed and slowed and slowed until it stopped altogether. They’d died on different nights, two days apart, and both times, Constance had been awake to see it happen. Both times, she’d waited until dawn’s first light to wake Mother - because she had hoped a miracle would occur and God would breathe some kind of second life into them and they’d come back. She’d been looking too hard for miracles, then.

Arthur needed no miracles, though. He kept breathing, all through the night, without pause.

Marta had left his shirt open, so his wounds could breathe. In the lamplight, Constance saw how many scars marked his chest. She took some comfort in this - he’d surely been through worse and survived.

By the time some early light was creeping into the windows, casting gold onto Arthur’s pale face, Constance was drifting and very tired. She didn’t hear Lars get up, but she felt his hand on her shoulder and she jumped.

She looked up at him, and he gave her a nod.

“Rest,” he said. “He will live.”

Constance shook her head, tried to smile. “I should be close when he wakes.”

Lars stared down at her for a moment, very serious, then smiled a little and nodded. He went outside after that, and Marta went after him, only a few moments later. Constance could hear children outside - laughing. Dogs barking. She could hear the sounds of a busy morning.

In the cabin, it was quiet. Only Arthur’s breathing.

Her thoughts wandered a little. She should have asked about the horses. Did they untether them from the wagon? Arthur always untethered them and brushed them. He took such good care of them, and she’d forgotten about them completely.

She was thinking about their things, too - in the back of the wagon. She didn’t think the people here would steal from them, but she didn’t know. She didn’t want to be naive -

Arthur’s arm twitched beneath her hand.

She glanced at his face, which remained impassive, his eyes closed. She waited and waited. Then he came to - with a sharp intake of breath. He tried to sit up, right away, but she was there to push him back down, as gently as she could.

She was so excited to see his eyes open that she kissed him. She touched at his face, his chest. She could feel his heart beating, beneath her palm. “It’s okay,” she told him.

He relaxed back against the mattress. His eyes closed again, but he said, “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Where are we?”

“Manzanita Post.”

He was quiet for a long time. His eyes stayed closed. His heart was still beating - she could feel it. Then he said, as though he was proud and relieved and sure all at once, “You got us here.”

Constance was still not sure how. But she brushed her hand over his forehead and said, “Yes. Now rest.”

“I been restin’,” he said.

“Rest some more.”

He smiled, very briefly, with his eyes still closed, but then he listened to her. He went back to sleep, and finally, she felt she could do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's taken so long! I had the first four pages of this chapter written when I made the last update and felt sooo confident I'd get this chapter out quickly. :/ That's what I get for being cocky.
> 
> I know my updates have slowed waaaay down, but I promise it's not a loss of interest on my part in the story. I work on it daily. It's just I've hit that midpoint, and I'm struggling with finding the right words :/ BUT. I promise to keep trying and updating as quickly as I can. I'd like to update once more before Christmas, but I'm not gonna jinx myself again.
> 
> If I don't update again before Christmas... MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE! I hope everyone has a good time, whatever it is you do or wherever you go! Be safe, have fun, all that good stuff!
> 
> (Thanks to followthefreedomtrail for beta reading - as always, you rock).

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism would be appreciated! :) Thanks!


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